


Sevensworn

by aureliios



Category: Original Work
Genre: (like a lot), Action/Adventure, Canon LGBTQ Character, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Complex Villains, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/F, Fate, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, High Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, Major Character Injury, Past Character Death, Prophecy, Slow Burn, Trauma, alright let's see how this goes folks, and now for some trigger warnings just to be safe:, good hair & bad situations, on the bright side:, please enjoy ily, tags will be updated as the author's brain starts to work better, yes there's romance but it's being left out of the tags for The Element Of Surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:41:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 149,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25654576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliios/pseuds/aureliios
Summary: In fifteen days, on his twentieth birthday, Prince Ronan Aldrea will die at the hands of a god. His path was set long before his birth by hands worlds away from his, unbiased and unyielding in their actions, and had been written into prophecy by seers of ages past. The hands of Fate had called for his death, but Ronan did not plan to sit idly by and let them claim him.The prophecy did not rest on Ronan's shoulders alone; it worked through a member of the Pantheon of Seven, the god Aevar, the one meant to kill him. With Aevar's arrival in the mortal realm comes a fierce reminder that his days are numbered, and with each pawn Fate puts into play, Ronan becomes more determined to defy it.In all of history, be it mortal or godly, Fate has reigned superior. It has never lost, never faltered, least of all fallen before a frightened mortal prince.But Ronan Aldrea intends to change those odds-no matter the cost.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 6





	1. I. Long Forgotten

Had it not been for the wind, Prince Ronan Aldrea would have fallen asleep long ago. The howling gales coming up from the valleys and the tumultuous thoughts he had gone to the ridge to escape were the only things keeping his exhaustion at bay. He had first ventured out into the snow hours ago, where he had been met with the temperamental weather typical of the Adacian mountains, and had lingered silently until the sun fell low in the sky.

The land, scattered with towns and ruins that he couldn't quite see through the fog, was what he had truly gone outside to see. Home felt closer when he was looking in its general direction, but at that moment even the capital, Adacia Proper, could not be seen on the horizon despite its reaching towers and the smoke from the continued Rhydellan assault. No matter how hard he looked, nothing came into focus; he eventually relented, sitting back and drawing lazy patterns in the snow with the tip of his finger. The threat of sleep at that moment seemed even more prominent than that of his impending fate.

As the shrouded sun fell red over the mountains and threw its bloodied touch over the snow, Ronan sighed, shutting his eyes and leaning his head back against the rough bark of an ancient pine. The dying light offered a comforting warmth, a stark contrast to the gales that dislodged snow from the branches above him. He let sleep creep up on him. Without opening his eyes, he knew a storm was coming, there was a certain taste on the wind—

The toe of a boot connected with his own. His head flew up, his eyes wide and alert until they fell on his well-meaning assailant. So much for sleep.

"Don't look so startled," Acaeus said, exhaling heavily as he dropped down to sit beside him, resting his sword across his knees. "It's only me."

"I didn't know you'd be back from patrol before dark." Ronan shook his head, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips as he rubbed his eyes and yawned. "You could have warned me, you know."

"I thought you heard me coming."

Acaeus stretched out his legs, reaching up a sluggish hand and tugging curls of white hair from his bun. It fell down around armored shoulders, the length a break in the Circle's code of dress that would have been an issue had they not been miles from anyone who was strict enough to care. Ronan looked back out over the sky while his mind remained fixed on the trivial aspects of his companion's demeanor. Even with Acaeus' admittedly careless adherence to the Circle's vows, he still managed to appear regal—even now, five years after they'd met, it still managed to awe him.

Had Ronan commented on the knight's 'regality,' he would have thrown back his head and laughed, undoubtedly following it with the brief line he always recited when Ronan got too close to the tale of his upbringing: " _I am the farthest thing from noble, highness_."

"How was it out there?" Ronan nodded toward the direction Acaeus had emerged from—there was a trail in the snow that led out into the forest of pine surrounding Solthorne, and judging by Acaeus' haggard appearance, Ronan would guess he had been out since morning.

"Cold," Acaeus muttered. His pale skin was indeed flushed from the biting air. "That's the only thing I miss about Rhydel—the sun actually provided heat."

Ronan snorted, but couldn't deny that Adacia's winters were harsh. He himself had a thick cloak spread over his body to protect him from the chill in the air, while Acaeus had been stubborn enough to leave the keep in only his armor and a scarf.

"Find anything?"

"I landed a deer. I handed it off to Wynne when I returned." Acaeus slumped back against the trunk of the tree and shut his eyes, his words clouded with exhaustion. "Nothing at the Reach, though. You'd think one of these ruins would have something, especially that shitty old monastery, but they're all just piles of stone and paper too ancient to read." His lips curled into a frown. "I hate the Reach. It makes my skin crawl, but I suppose places like that always do."

"There's always next time," Ronan said, hiding his brief flash of disappointment as he'd done so many times before. "Besides, these ruins are all a long shot, and the Reach, if it was truly so intimidating, is perhaps better left undisturbed."

"It would still be nice to have something that could help us." Acaeus opened one eye and gave him a teasing grin. "I prefer you alive, Ronan. If I have to challenge a prophecy to keep you that way, I'd like to know the odds I'm up against."

"I don't think even you could run Fate through with your sword."

Acaeus chuckled. "Watch me."

The sword in question was shifted off his knees and set beside him, a glint of blue visible beneath the hilt. Acaeus yawned, using the heel of his boot to trace patterns in the snow.

"What about you? Any luck?"

Ronan raised an eyebrow. "With?"

"I don't know. Sleeping? Out here, in the infernal winds?"

Shifting so his legs were crossed beneath him, Ronan stifled a smile. "I helped Wynne in the library. Nothing on prophecies yet, but some on the Seven. I came out here to watch the sun set."

"Do you think your gods will help you?"

"No. Maybe." Ronan bit his lip. "One's supposed to kill me. I'm not sure where the other six stand."

"One is indeed supposed to kill you, but another speaks to you in dreams. Maybe there's hope."

"I suppose. But Shivaroth never struck me as the type to go against the pantheon, even for his Herald." He paused. "I can't blame him. In his position, I would keep myself as far from the conflict as I could. Aevar isn't one you want to face as an enemy." His hand came up to touch the brand at his throat almost unconsciously, trailing over the raised, scarred red of the Eye of Aevar. It was a clear claim to his life, a sign to any other who sought to raise a hand against him that this child, this prince, was the prey of another.

Acaeus reached out and pulled his hand from the mark, guiding it down to Ronan's lap before drawing back.

"We don't have to discuss this now."

"It's alright," Ronan murmured. "It doesn't worry me."

Acaeus didn't meet his eyes. "Pretend it's for my benefit, then." Ronan studied him, caught the subtle draw between his brows and the tight set of his jaw. He recognized that look; it was the one the knight adopted before doing something foolish. An expression Ronan saw often.

"Of course." He turned away, tilting his head back to look at the branches above him that seemed to reach toward the sun. Acaeus' hand brushed his own, and wasn't retracted.

Ronan knew somewhere in the back of his mind that their time was running out. If they found no resources here to aid them in their search to abolish the prophecy, they would have to move on, as they had done so many times before. He had no issue with their nomadic existence in the past; he was well used to all it brought forth. He had, however, grown attached to his ancestral hall and its snow-crowned peaks. Unfortunately, his love of Solthorne was a luxury they could not afford to carry with them.

He spared a moment to wonder if Acaeus felt the same. His home was in Rhydel, far away and in the very center of those that Ronan's kingdom considered their enemies. Everything in Adacia was jarringly different; the language was sharper, the cities smaller, the landscape jagged and snow-covered for a good half of the year, while Rhydel received only a fraction of their winter. It had been years since Acaeus had been back, and it was doubtful that he would ever be able to step foot on Rhydel's shores again—his name alone put a bounty on his head, and his house, once noble, had been branded as traitors to the state. He had made his own choice clear when he offered Ronan his blade so many years before.

He exhaled, making a conscious effort to draw his thoughts back. Acaeus glanced at him.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," Ronan said. "I'm thinking."

Acaeus's lips twitched, and his eyes closed as he smiled. "I figured."

Neither elaborated. They sat in companionable silence until the sun had completed its course, sinking below the distant peaks and leaving the dusk to cover the clouds that hung over them, heavy with snow. Acaeus pushed himself to his feet, the leather armor he wore creaking slightly in the joints, chilled by the lack of movement. The knight took his greatsword from the ground and slung it back over his shoulder. It was too large to belt at his waist.

"You coming?" Acaeus offered his hand and Ronan took it, ignoring the rush in his head as he was pulled to his feet. He fastened the cloak he'd had over his knees back around his shoulders, grateful for the buffer from the wind. Acaeus started walking, Ronan followed. It took him a few moments to realize he didn't know where they were going.

"Coming where?"

"Wynne told me she wanted to see you," Acaeus called back from ahead.

Ronan jogged to catch up, his boots catching in the snow. "Did she say why?"

"Does she ever?"

Miles away, lightning flashed in the clouds above a valley to the east. Ronan's eyes followed it as it arced across the sky, moving in a way less fluid than when Acaeus' magic was guiding it, but with a natural grace all the same. Acaeus followed his gaze.

"The storms have come," he murmured. He shuddered, his magic reacting to the raw power of the skies, even so far away. "I wonder if the villages are holding up against the winds."

"I hope so," Ronan said. "I wish I could see what it was like on the sea."

Acaeus guided him toward the keep, opening the door nearest the stables and ushering him through. Ronan stepped inside, glad to be out of the wind but not entirely certain the stone halls offered much more warmth than the mountains had.

"It's too damn cold." Acaeus slammed the door against the wind and unstrapped his leather chestplate, dropping it in an old chair by the door without bothering to clean the ice and snow from its creases. His voice echoed in the newfound silence. "If the temperature drops any lower I think I'll have to take a ship back to Rhydel."

"And what then? Join the army to get away from the winter?"

"It would be better than freezing to death." The knight flexed his shoulders, smoothing wrinkles from the black shirt he'd been wearing beneath his armor. "I'm not one for Adacia's overdramatic weather."

Acaeus started down the hallway. Ronan followed, glad to be walking in the comfortable glow of the torchlight. Safety was a rare commodity in Adacia, wartime or no—when there was some to find, it was wise to cling to it, even if the source was fleeting. As they walked, the mood shifted, sobering with the approach of night, the mark of one more day fallen without a single thing to show for it.

Ronan's eyes scanned the walls. The stone was uneven, the paintings stained from mold and water, the tapestries faded and moth-bitten. There had been no one to tend Solthorne's grounds in his lifetime, and a keep left without a keeper would always fall to pieces. He had been surprised it was still standing when they'd arrived after fleeing the capital—it was a thing of legend. It looked out of place in the modern day, like something an artist would add to a carefully crafted landscape as an afterthought. He reached out, trailing his fingertips against the stone, letting them catch in the hollows of old carvings.

"Ronan," Acaeus said finally, slowing to a stop. Ronan looked up, glancing down at the door to the library that had just become visible at the end of the hall.

"Are we here?"

"Yes, but I—there's something I need to ask you before you go in."

Ronan's brow furrowed. Acaeus glanced at his shoes, then at Ronan's, before meeting his eyes. His posture lacked all of its usual foolhardy confidence.

"Go ahead," he said slowly. Acaeus steeled himself.

"Have you considered going back to Shivaroth? We're out of options, Solthorne hasn't yielded anything, and the ruins around here have been bare for centuries. If you were to speak to him, see if he could help you—"

"We've been over this," Ronan murmured. "You know what could happen."

A silence fell between them. It was an unspoken rule that Ronan's Dreamwalking was something not to be undertaken without the consent of his Circle, and for Acaeus to propose it at all was alarming enough—as a member of the royal Aldrea line, he was granted the ability to speak to his patron god in his dreams. It was a relationship coveted by priests and demonized by the unfaithful, and it was nothing to be toyed with. Dreamwalking could get him killed. It could melt his mind, take his soul, give Aevar a direct way to find him—and if anything, he knew the god that had given him the brand of death was not someone he wanted to meet.

"Besides, it's been months since we've spoken. He was clear with me last time we saw each other; he doesn't want to put me in danger, and Dreamwalking is the one thing he forbade me from doing."

Acaeus exhaled through his nose, nodded, and averted his eyes before Ronan could even begin to try to read his expression. "You're right," he said. "And I won't force you into it. I only..." he looked down at the door to the library, where Ronan had left Wynne earlier that afternoon. "Oh, ignore me. Wynne's been waiting long enough, and I need to go renew the wards." He flexed his fingers, and Ronan watched a flicker of blue course beneath his skin, the subtle tell of an Asir mage awakening their magic. He knew there was no arguing with Acaeus at that point, and he had reached such an honest point of exhaustion that he wasn't sure he could even begin to push the conversation further. Renewing the wards was a weak excuse—Ronan knew Acaeus' shielding spells were strong enough to last another week before they fell.

When he finally looked up it was to Acaeus' fading footsteps and an empty hallway. He turned, deciding that under the circumstances, with all of the tension in the air, he would rather give Acaeus the space he needed than pursue him.

Solthorne was large, and he was sure Acaeus would find a place to be alone. Perhaps once it had even been grand—its walls spoke of stories long forgotten, and the blemishes and cracks in the defenses surrounding it held tales of sieges fought long before his time. Walking through the halls as he had been doing never failed to instill some sense of history in him. He couldn't help but feel lucky to be part of it.

His arrival at the keep had been unceremonious; he had left the castle in his home city of Adacia Proper nearly one year prior, when flames had claimed his beloved library and turned the seas an ashen gray. The capture of the castle was not unexpected. Adacia's king was ill, her prince doomed to die, and her fleet of once-proud ships forgotten. The Isle of Rhydel, patient and strong across the channel, quickly rose to meet Adacia's fall, laying claim to her land and siege to her cities. Ronan had been dragged from his father's side by the two knights assigned to protect him, his Circle, as he watched his kingdom fall to ruin over the unforgiving sea.

News of his father's death reached him weeks later, accompanied by the realization that his army had been all but decimated. Those that had survived, calling themselves freedom fighters, had fled in hopes that they would be able to return with more troops—though none had ever come. Going back to Adacia Proper was a death sentence, and despite his protests he was forbidden to return to the nation's capital. As Adacia's sole heir, it was imperative that his Circle keep him alive until it was certain that he would be able to take back his throne. That, or his kingdom would be sentenced to a life under Rhydellan rule, and that was not something he would allow.

His Circle had passed on a message to what remained of their hidden forces: "hold out until we negate the prophecy—once the future king is safe, we take back our land."

The home of his ancestors was the only place they had thought to come. Solthorne Keep was unknown to Rhydel, to perhaps anyone but the Aldrea family line and the gods themselves, and any remaining records of its location had burned along with the capital. It had served them well for the seven months they'd spent in its halls. Even after the snows had come and their supplies had dwindled, it had kept them steady.

He turned from the place Acaeus had been standing and instead fixed his gaze on the door to the library, wary of entering but glad to shake his memories from his mind. Thoughts of times past often weighed on him—it was never out of the ordinary, but always enough to make him uneasy. He forced his mind to turn to the future.

There was the fact that they couldn't stay hidden forever, even with Acaeus' wards. There was the inevitable climax of his life, the abrupt fall, and finally the conclusion, set to take place just shy of the full moon, on his twentieth birthday. There was his predicament with Dreamwalking, and the small but ever-present thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be better off leaving Solthorne and setting out on his own. Then, at the very least, he wouldn't have to worry about the pain his death would inflict on those he loved. He would only have to worry about himself, and that would be that—but even that wasn't so simple. Nothing in life ever was. It was all heavy and full of unknowns, things to surface at the wrong times and attempt to drag him down with them.

The library door had become much more daunting. Despite its docile appearance, it now carried an air of doubt, an intense fear he had to work harder to escape the closer he drew to his birthday. He forced himself to walk forward, feet dragging, suddenly wishing Acaeus had stayed and kept taking, even if it was only to complain more about the weather.

The handle was cold on his palm. He turned it, pushed the door inward, so used to the engravings in the wood that they no longer caught his eye.

As the door gave way to the torch-bronzed walls of the keep's ancient library, Ronan felt a bit of the tension leave his shoulders. The ceiling was high and every available shelf was lined with books, some too old and faded to read while others were miraculously preserved. A metal pitcher of water sat on one of the tables nearby, and Ronan saw the chair he had been sitting in earlier, a book resting open before it.

"Wynne?" The room, while obviously occupied, appeared empty. His voice echoed around the chamber, met with silence for a moment and then the scrape of a book being taken from a shelf.

"Finally decided to join me, have you?" Wynne ducked out from behind a bookshelf, a stack of leather-bound books in hand, the skin beside her eyes creased from her smile. Her hair was pulled back in a braid that fell to the small of her back, out of her face so she could work. She set the stack of books down on the table and pushed a small plate of food out of her way.

"I figured it was about time," Ronan said, slipping into one of the seats across from Wynne. "You find anything particularly useful?"

"Just some more spells I'm sure Acaeus would like to learn, but they wouldn't do the rest of us any good without the ability to wield magic. There was one that was interesting, though—it wasn't done using the magic within a mortal, but by tapping into the power of Feihjelm itself."

"The realm of the gods?" Ronan looked up with a piece of bread in his hands that he'd snagged from Wynne's place. "I'm sure the Seven wouldn't be pleased with that."

"Oh, they wouldn't be particularly pleased with the spell's outcome, either," Wynne muttered. "But it's nothing useful, only interesting. I haven't found any answers or new leads." She sighed. "I'm afraid we're running out of options, child. There are only so many more books left on these shelves that we haven't been through, and I'm sure if we keep going like this, the stores will be exhausted within the week. After that, we'll have to leave. Go find some other sources, maybe speak to one of the priests of the Seven or some Shiqataran monk. Maybe an Asir wielder."

The Asir, according to legend, were a tribe of mages descended from the god Calyseus. The term had long since been generalized, coming to refer to any that bore magic in their bloodline. Due to their proficiency with the many Spheres of Magic, they were dangerous, and treated with a cautious respect.

"We have an Asir wielder," Ronan said. "Just talk to Acaeus, I'm sure he'd be glad to have a task that didn't involve him gallivanting around in the snow."

"You know what I mean, Ro. I have no doubt that Acaeus is powerful, we've both seen him fight, but he's got no more answers than we."

Ronan stared down at the table in dismay. It was not rare, this situation—it was more common than not, in fact, for the residents of Solthorne to fall this far into despair. He was most often the victim to this, especially of late, though he did his best to keep it at bay. He put the slice of bread down untouched.

"We'll have to give up at some point, Wynne."

The knight stiffened across from him, every aspect of her person sharpening. It was with a rare hint of anger that she responded.

"We're not giving up. We still have time, and things we haven't tried. I swear by the Three, we'll find a way out of this."

"I'd swear by the Seven, if I were you. Those are the ones out for my head, your gods have never batted an eye at me." He thought back to all the times he'd prayed, all the hours spent on his knees in the citadel, the cold stone floor stiffening his joints. Each and every time, he'd prayed to the Seven, asking them for aid or mercy, but none had ever responded.

None, until he woke up one night in his dreams and spoke to someone claiming to be an immortal. He had been ten at the time, and dismissed it as a nightmare.

He'd turned to the Three after that, to the gods recognized by the people of the islands Rhydel, Kadena, and Lyr. They had given him no guidance and greeted him with a chilling silence, until eventually Ronan was forced to turn back to the stranger, who had introduced himself by the name of a god that had died long ago. This god had fallen in defense of his brother-in-arms, as the stories went, and he sported the scars to show for it. According to the stranger's stories, he was the god in question; he had been revived by a deity that had taken pity on him on one condition: that he begin his life over again as an entirely new being. He was of the first of the gods, but when Ronan first met him he must have been no older than fourteen, a consequence of the death he suffered years prior and the promise he had made to start his life anew.

" _My name is Shivaroth_ ,"he had said with a gentle smile. " _I am the one that weaves your dreams. I have heard your cries, and come to greet you not as a god would a mortal, but I hope as an equal. I wish to help you_."

Had Ronan known what he was getting into, that this thing he was doing, conversing with a god in the realm of dreams, was "Dreamwalking," an ancient power passed down from the first queen of Adacia, he might not have answered in the way he had. Had he not been a child, twelve years old and frightened beyond belief, he may have ignored it altogether. Had he known that the "brother-in-arms" Shivaroth had died for so long ago was Aevar, the god that had claimed him for death the moment he was born, he may have spat at his feet and invoked his wrath.

But he hadn't known anything, and he'd flung himself against Shivaroth with a cry of thanks, ignoring his eerie black eyes and inhuman blue skin.

Seven years later, after speaking to Shivaroth time and time again, building up trust and eventually even friendship, he'd finally heard the young god confess that he'd died taking a hit meant for Aevar. His actions had condemned the world, caused it to be thrown out of balance, and as he claimed, it was his fault Aevar had ignored the Divine laws and lost his way.

This claim was well-founded, and Ronan had known it. Aevar was strife, and Shivaroth was serenity—they were the oldest of the gods, and together they were meant to keep a balance. Without Shivaroth around to temper his whims, Aevar had gotten bored, and his boredom was deadly; one without the other meant disaster, and disaster had come in the form of Aevar's brand of death that sat crimson against his throat.

If Ronan had the soul of another, he may have condemned him. He may have cast Shivaroth aside and prayed for his demise. But he hadn't been surprised—it was in Shivaroth's nature to care. He was a martyred god, just as lost and scared as Ronan was no matter how firmly he swore otherwise. The prince had nodded, smiled, said, " _I understand_."

The night after the god's confession, Shivaroth had taken his hand and begged him not to return, saying he had to keep him from danger. Ronan had obeyed, and Acaeus carved a sigil over his bed that would bind his soul to his body while he slept, successfully ending his Dreamwalking.

He had respected the god's wishes since, but he knew just as well as the rest that they were running out of options.

"You're sure the library's almost through?" His voice held a hollow hint of defeat, and Wynne glanced away, hiding her concern.

"Positive. We've even exhausted the back stores." She sighed. "Now would be a great time for that magic library of yours to spring into existence."

Ronan smiled wryly, remembering all of the times he had begged Wynne to tell him of the myth of the Archive of the Veil as a boy. "Even if the Seven's library was real, I doubt they'd deign to let us in."

Solthorne had been home for over half a year now, and the thought of leaving made Ronan's stomach lurch. Without it, there'd be no more hiding. No more running from the war being fought in the valleys below. They'd be out in the open, right back where they'd started, and for what? For the off chance that something in some remote corner of the island would be enough to save him? They had fifteen days left until his twentieth birthday, the day he was fated to die, and they could do very little with fifteen days.

He ignored his rising dread and forced a cheerful tone. "Where would we go?"

Wynne shrugged, shutting the book in front of her with a grimace and pushing it aside. It was obvious that she was just as reluctant to leave Solthorne as he was, and he didn't blame her. As of that moment, it was one of the last remaining safe havens in Adacia.

"I'm not sure, Highness. Maybe west, toward the ruins of Old Adacia, or south, to the Temple of the Seven. Both paths are dangerous, but one would have to do." She shook her head. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm just trying to figure out if I need to start planning," he said softly. "You know. Figuring out who should rule after me. But as much as I may wish I could, I'm not sure..." He dropped his head into his hands. "I'm not sure I'm ready to give up."

Across the table, he heard Wynne put down her book and pushed her chair back. A moment later he was pulled into her arms, and he welcomed the contact with a stiff exhale bordering dangerously on a sob. He didn't drop his hands from his eyes.

"Then don't," Wynne murmured into his hair, one of her hands rubbing soothing circles into his lower back. She knew what she was doing—she had worked him through many days just like this, with a certain grace he had only ever seen in Wynne's eyes.

He lowered his hands, found them shaking, and reached them around and clutched the back of Wynne's tunic.

"This isn't over yet. I know you think it is, and I know it seems like something that can't be escaped, but it's not. Everything that you're up against, you can overcome. These odds may be difficult, but you can take them without faltering."

"How do you know?" He was being childish. The questions, the tremor in his voice. He didn't care.

"Because, Ronan. Mortals have a bit more unpredictability than the gods like to give us credit for. No matter what they think they have set in stone, you can fight your way out of it." Wynne pulled back and flashed him a daring grin. "And I'll be right by your side when you do."

Ronan released his grip on the knight, so much older than he but still ready to run into battle as soon as he said the word. She was forty-three, and just as willing to pick up her bow and wreak havoc as she had been when they'd met eleven years prior.

Perhaps it was because she'd known him so long. Perhaps she fought not for him after all, but for her wife's safety, the safety of the island. Perhaps she was only upholding her oath to Ronan's parents. Either way, he never questioned it. Wynne loved him like a mother, and he loved her with the same familial warmth. They hadn't been without each other since Ronan had requested her as the head of his personal guard after his mother's death—and he wouldn't have it any other way.

When he looked at Wynne then, at her knowing eyes and light brown skin that sported its fair share of scars, he knew she had changed. They both had. But he still saw in her the same knight that had taken him out to sea the day his mother died, the one who'd sang him to sleep when he was a child and thrown herself in front of uncountable threats, all for him.

"Thank you," he finally whispered. The gods had nothing to do with her staying; he would not thank them for her loyalty. Wynne did everything her own way, by her own hand. "Thank you for being here." The knight gave him a warm smile.

"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said.

When he pulled back and looked down again, he had the beginnings of a plan. Wynne went back to her food and her books, and he wandered toward the window, looking out into the Keep's courtyard and studying the layer of snow on the ground.

He knew what he had to do, and what it would require of him. There was no telling what outcome his plan would bring, and he had to do it alone. If Zia had been there, perhaps she would have helped him carry out his web of foolishness, but she was in Esadon ruling her own island. She was his last Circle member, but she carried out her business across the sea, returning only in times of great need.

It was understandable. She was a queen, after all, and she was needed elsewhere.

Without her, that left only Wynne and Acaeus, the two other inhabitants of Solthorne Keep. As much as he loved them both, they wouldn't help him with this. Despite Acaeus' queries, he knew the risks, and Ronan already knew Wynne was vehemently against it. But looking out across the jagged Adacian mountains, he was sure that the only way to proceed was along the rough edges of the plan he had begun to form.

It all started with Dreamwalking.


	2. II. The Dreamweaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a familiar face makes an appearance; another makes an unwelcome entrance.

It wasn't difficult to retire early without raising suspicion. Acaeus was still off in some remote corner of the keep, and Wynne had gone back to her work soon after their conversation. It was a simple task to find a bed in the keep not marked with the binding sigil that kept his soul from wandering—he knew that the moment he closed his eyes, he'd be greeted by the familiar face of Shivaroth, for better or worse.

He didn't have to worry about anyone finding him, and even if they did, pulling a Dreamwalker from their sleep could be a dangerous, life-threatening ordeal—no one would be bothering him.

His boots echoed in the empty corridor. He glanced back over his shoulder as he fumbled with the door's ivory handle, shutting the thing tightly behind him. The dim light of the rising moon gave him just enough of a view of the room to allow him to make it to the bed without any difficulty. He didn't bother removing his clothes—he didn't plan to sleep long. He simply checked for the sigil on the wall, a binding circle surrounding a sharp-edged willow tree, and upon finding none, fell into the bed and shut his eyes.

It was not long before sleep claimed him. There was a familiar tug in his chest, one that occurred when something beyond his body was calling to his soul, and when he next opened his eyes, it was not to the dim stone walls of Solthorne.

When he turned, his eyes landed on an open expanse of stars covering a splash of purple sky, the signature endless night of Serenvah, the dream realm. A gentle breeze blew back the branches of willow trees beside him, and the tug in his chest drew him forward, to a path in the tall grasses that he had walked many times before.

A voice joined the wind.

"Dear one," it said. "You are not supposed to be here."

"I will leave if you wish, Shivaroth."

There was a brief hesitation. In a tone that made it clear that he was going against his better judgment, Shivaroth spoke. "I will not turn you away."

Beneath the stilted conversation sat the ease of those that had known each other for years—while for any other god it would have been only the blink of an eye, Shivaroth had been young when they met, only slightly older than Ronan and recovering from the death he had suffered and the near hundred-year stasis he had entered to be reborn. He and Ronan had grown up together, so to speak; seven years was significant to them both. Despite his outspoken distrust of the rest of the Seven, he had always found Shivaroth remarkably bearable.

When he reached the end of the path, he pushed through the curtain of willow branches and looked around the familiar hollow they had shielded.

There was a lazy waterfall to his left and a field of soft grass beneath his feet, with stone idols strewn about the clearing and moonlight streaming down through the forest canopy. It was just as beautiful as he remembered it—and in the middle, with everything revolving around him, was the Dreamweaver himself.

He looked just as he had when Ronan had seen him last—blue skin, hair that danced around his shoulders as if he sat underwater, black eyes that looked like they held the stars. There were gold earrings hung on his pointed ears, simple yet eye-catching. Along with the elegant red tattoos that adorned his shoulders and chest, Shivaroth was the very image of beauty.

"Now," Shivaroth murmured from where he hovered leisurely a few feet off the ground, his legs crossed and his hands resting against his ankles. The two red lines tattooed over his eyelids, no thicker than Ronan's little finger, creased as he furrowed his brow. "Are you going to tell me why you are looking at me as if I am a stranger?" Nothing in his eyes spoke of anger, only curiosity, as if the last few months of silence had already been forgotten. Ronan took a few more steps forward before lowering himself onto the soft forest floor, breathing in through his nose and watching the willow branches sway. At his silence, Shivaroth inclined his head, giving him a sad smile.

"If it is about my relationship with Aevar, I understand," he murmured. "But know that as long as he continues to mark innocents and wreak havoc simply for the sake of it, my loyalties lie with you. He is no longer the man I used to know."

"It isn't that," Ronan said hurriedly. "I was telling you the truth when I said I wasn't angry. I'm only—it's been so long."

Shivaroth studied him for a moment, the corners of his lips turning down in the hint of a frown.

"You seem upset. Has something happened?"

"Not yet." Ronan's voice broke, and Shivaroth's hands twitched as if he wanted to reach out and offer comfort. "But it's close, Shiva. I have fifteen days left, and we've run out of options."

Shivaroth closed his eyes, lowering his chin into scarred palms. "You know I do not possess the strength to help you. I am still too young to have mastery over my power."

"I do."

"Then why have you come?"

Ronan weighed his options, his heart hammering in his chest. He could feel Shivaroth's presence around him and his gaze on his skull. When he looked back up, the god's eyes had opened and were trained on him with steady interest.

"You're a god," Ronan said finally. "You can do anything. I've heard the songs of your deeds—you've healed people with a touch, calmed them with a word. You're a force to be reckoned with, mastery or no, and I know you've said you can't do that anymore but I—"

"I was not exaggerating, Ronan."

"But you must have some amount of power left!"

"I died at the hands of a mortal—you seemed to leave that part of the story out. The blacksmith Vehkra tried to kill Aevar, and struck me down in his place. You are all too familiar with this tale by now, do you remember how it ends?"

He remembered Vehkra. He was the only mortal to ever come close to immortality through taking up Aevar's mantle, that of the Void Guardian. He had single-handedly proved that mortals were capable of taking the abilities of a god so long as they were able to withstand the raw power.

"You died," Ronan whispered, shaking himself from his thoughts. "But you came back."

"Do you know how?"

"Not entirely. Only what the legends say."

"I was enveloped in the roots of a willow tree. It took pity on me, kept me alive, gave me its own essence to keep my heart beating while it held me deep below the ground. It was one of the _Aalakhai,_ the Ancients, the first beings. One I had created. It knew me, recognized my voice. It gave its life for me, Ronan. When I woke up it was centuries later, it was withered and dead but I was alive, perhaps three years old in your metric of time, with air in my lungs and only a sliver of my magic remaining. It sacrificed itself for me, and while I was recovering in stasis for a century, my magic bled out across Feihjelm." Shivaroth gestured to the sigil tattooed over his chest, a circular, knotted pattern of branches and roots. "My crest is a willow tree," he murmured. "That is not a coincidence."

"So your magic..?"

"My magic is powerful compared to a mortal's, but just as easily exhausted. Too much and I risk harming myself and the object my spell is directed toward. Even if there was some ritual I knew that could help you, it would likely kill you and leave me as nothing more than just a husk."

Ronan paled. "Oh."

"I am sorry," Shivaroth said softly. "Truly, I am. If there was anything I could have done, I would have done it the moment I met you. There is nothing more painful to me than the fact that Serenvah's power is not strong enough to aid you beyond your dreams."

The branches of the willow grove seemed to reach out as Shivaroth lowered himself to the ground, letting his bare feet rest in the moss. He walked forward and knelt down before Ronan, putting two fingers under his chin and lifting his face up so their eyes met.

"I swear to you, I will do all I can to help you from here. There are books I may be able to find. Old prophecies. And you know you can always find me in Serenvah."

"I'm going to die," Ronan whispered.

"As mortals do." Shivaroth steepled his fingers. "As we all do."

Ronan opened his mouth to speak, his breath shuddering in his chest, when the vibrant purple of the sky shifted into swirls of violent red. Shivaroth looked up, innocent surprise parting his lips and perking up his ears, before a sharp realization came over him.

"Someone is near you. Near your body, on Ishtel."

"Acaeus," Ronan said flatly, mind rushing to come up with a plan. "Or Wynne."

"No, this is not them. I know them, I have felt their presences before."

Ronan's eyes darted to Shivaroth. The god's face was stricken with alarm. His hands, much too warm to be those of a mortal, gripped Ronan's shoulders and pulled him to his feet.

"Stay very still," Shivaroth hissed. "I need to concentrate."

Ronan obliged, barely daring to breathe. A strong wind had risen in Serenvah, tugging at the grass and trees as sky steadily darkened. This side of Shivaroth was one he had rarely seen—the dark, storm-wrought sky reflected the shifting black of his eyes, the pull of the tree roots complimented the tight grip of his hands. Shivaroth was the Dreamweaver; he created paradise, but every dream had another side to it. For every dream Shivaroth created, there was always a nightmare. The god was no stranger to this intensity, and embraced it as Ronan watched.

"You need to wake up," Shivaroth said. "Ronan, you need to wake up right now." His words were rushed, panicked. Ronan opened his mouth to ask a question, to say anything, but Shivaroth gripped one of his hands in his own and held his gaze. "When you wake up, be ready to fight. I do not know who is with you, but their intentions are not pure. They have a weapon, and they intend to use it."

"Shivaroth—"

Shivaroth shook his head. " _Mihan'toa!_ " he hissed in the language of the gods. "Wake up!"

As if pulled from miles away, Ronan's vision went black. The breath was stolen from his lungs, his limbs lost feeling, an intense pain spread through his chest where he had felt Serenvah's even pull not long before. It took him a moment to come back to himself, but the moment his eyes opened, he knew Shivaroth had spoken the truth. He was not alone, and whatever was present was not a benevolent entity.

His next breath was released with a forced calm. He felt the residual warmth of Shivaroth's touch, along with a lingering presence. As he inched his leg toward the edge of the bed and hoped whoever was near would not see him do so in the darkness, someone spoke.

"Young prince _._ " Ronan had never heard the voice before, and his skin turned to ice. His breath caught in his throat and he sat bolt upright, eyes fixing on the corner the words had come from, knowing it was far too late to pray that Shivaroth had been wrong.

He had to alert his Circle.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am," came the response. Ronan's eyes had not yet adjusted to the shift in scenery. There was unmistakably a figure, tall and broad-shouldered, that leaned against the wall, but as much as he strained his eyes he could not see their face. Ronan looked around the room, careful not to make any sudden moves as he readied himself to make a quick escape. The figure shifted and a sliver of their garments became clear in a patch of moonlight from the window.

A red and black leather kilt. The unmistakable glint of a blade hung at the waist, broken before it reached half of its length. Vibrant blue tattoos over his pale, bare chest.

This was not someone he knew, but his body recognized him. Within moments he was sure, and seconds after he was on his feet, all too aware that he had no weapon with him and that calling for help would undoubtedly lead to his evisceration at the end of the intruder's shattered sword.

"Aevar," he said.

"Smart boy." Aevar stepped into the light. His hair ran in red waves down his back, and a crimson eye was burned into his skin over his heart, identical to the brand at the base of Ronan's throat—the mark so fittingly called the Eye of Aevar. "You were a fool to let your guard down, however. I am sure your godling has told you that Dreamwalking is a...revealing art."

"He has," Ronan breathed, stepping back when Aevar stepped forward. "But you're early." His hip hit the corner of a dresser, and a lantern rattled against the wooden surface. He put a hand out to steady himself, grazing the glass and hooking his fingers around the base of it. Aevar rested a hand on the hilt of his blade.

"I thought we would get to know each other. I wanted to look my prey in the eyes, meet you, see if you would provide me with enough of a challenge. It has been far too long since I had a good hunt." The moon made Aevar's eyes gleam, his teeth catching the light as he grinned.

Ronan glanced toward the door and tightened his grip on the lantern. "And then?"

"And then we will have to see." This time when he glanced toward the door, Aevar caught it. He chuckled. "You are frightened. There is no need to be worried; everything dies one day or another. Even the gods will fall eventually. There is no reason your death cannot be honorable, I will not deny you that."

Ronan raised his chin and met his eyes. "I do not plan to die."

He flung the lantern to the ground unlit, the glass shattering, spreading across the ground like stars across the sky, bright and dangerous. Aevar smiled.

"There is nowhere to go. Your keep is surrounded."

Down the hall, a door was flung open. Moments later, Ronan's name was called, echoing through the corridor, panicked and rough with sleep.

Aevar raised his eyebrows. Ronan lowered his own. As the god crossed the room in a few easy strides, Ronan raised his voice to a shout, returning the cry.

"Acaeus!"

Aevar locked his hand around Ronan's throat, his fingers grazing the brand that marked him as his prey. Ronan's eyes remained fixed on the door while Aevar continued speaking.

"Your Circle cannot protect you. They are as weak as you, as all mortals are. You cannot go up against a god and live, child, especially not when that god is me."

Ronan's breath was coming in choked gasps. His fingers clawed at Aevar's while his eyes remained narrowed and furious. The footsteps he had heard from the end of the hall had disappeared, and with a sudden moment of panic, Ronan lashed out with his foot, still mercifully covered by his boot. The hit connected with Aevar's knee, but he did little more than shift his weight. A panic began to rise in him.

He may have miscalculated.

His vision danced along the edges, Aevar's voice became nothing more than a rush in his ears, and everything beyond his body was forgotten. As Ronan's struggling began to cease and Aevar didn't drop his hand from his throat, it became clear that this was not simply a social call. However, he doubted it would be the end of his life, either—the gods were not ones to kill so simply, and despite his confidence he guessed even Aevar wouldn't go against the words of the prophecy.

Behind Aevar, the door to Ronan's room was slammed open. The pressure on his windpipe was released and he fell to his knees, taking in hoarse gasps of air. It took a few moments for him to come back to his senses and take in the scene before him.

Aevar had drawn his blade and started speaking to Acaeus, who was breathing heavily and wielded his greatsword Stormbreaker in an unyielding two-handed grip. From the grave recognition in his eyes, Ronan could tell he had already figured out who it was that stood between them.

"Another mortal," Aevar said with a chuckle. "You think yourself quite a warrior, hm?" The god stepped forward, lashed out with his broken sword, a blow with no force behind it. Acaeus blocked it easily, his eyes narrowing. Ronan's breath was beginning to come easier, and he forced himself to his feet.

"I think I know how to survive," Acaeus retorted. He did not break eye contact with Aevar, their blades still locked together. "Move toward the door for me, Ronan." His jaw was squared. "We're leaving."

Ronan obeyed, staying close to the wall and avoiding Aevar's range of attack. The god's eyes followed Ronan's movements carefully, his smile never fading from his face. Aevar lowered his blade from Acaeus', allowing Ronan to stand behind his knight, watching with an intricate curiosity.

"Do you truly think I am going to allow you a head start?"

"You said you wanted a good hunt," Ronan said, doing his best to keep his voice level. "What better way to ensure you get a good show than if you let us run?"

"Let you run." Aevar chuckled. "If I am to let you run, child, I must even the playing field somehow. This is not my terrain, not my home. You know this land better than any of the gods. If you have that on your side, I am afraid I must have this."

Acaeus' eyes widened. Aevar twirled his blade, ran his finger along the flat of it, and swung it forward. Acaeus blocked it, raising his blade without the swiftness that came from weilding a lighter weapon, and as soon as metal hit metal, Aevar was drawing back and ducking beneath his attempt to parry. Acaeus blocked again, determined, giving his best defense while Aevar only gave half of his best offense. Ronan's eyes darted around the room, desperate for something he could use as a weapon, and while he was distracted, Aevar's focus shifted to him.

The glint of light on his blade was the only hint Ronan got. He staggered back, not fast enough, not nearly fast enough.

Stormbreaker clattered to the ground. Acaeus lunged, moving with a swiftness that had been impossible with his sword, and pushed Ronan back against the doorframe, one of his hands clutching Ronan's shoulder while the other grasped for purchase on the wall.

Acaeus cried out as Aevar's blade connected in a clean arc across his back, slicing cleanly through his unarmored flesh. Ronan's eyes went wide. His hands, shaking and numb with shock, came up to hover over the wound, unsure what to do or how to do it. Acaeus drew in a rough breath, his fingers tightening on Ronan's shoulder before he pushed himself back up to his full height, turning and kneeling down to draw Stormbreaker to him once more, which he handed to Ronan when he stood.

Aevar made no other move to attack, and simply watched as Acaeus' face began to lose color. Ronan held Stormbreaker loosely, as if he were afraid it would burn him.

"Little prince." Aevar's voice drew him out of his shock. A grim smile spread over the god's face. "Give me a good hunt, hm? I have been bored for far too long."

"Let's go," Acaeus hissed, fisting a hand in the sleeve of Ronan's coat and pulling him out the door. "Come on, listen to me. Hurry." The moment he had forced Ronan from the room, Acaeus slammed the door shut behind them and started off at a quick pace down the hallway, never loosening his grip on Ronan's arm.

"What's he doing?" Ronan spared a glance back at the room, which Aevar had not yet exited.

"He's giving us a head start, the cocky bastard," Acaeus said through gritted teeth. "Don't push our luck, we have to move."

Solthorne was silent. If he hadn't been shaking from the adrenaline of coming face-to-face with his soon-to-be killer, he wouldn't have ever imagined that anything was wrong. Part of him still doubted it, the part that wanted to lock the doors and stay in denial until the storm passed and the dangers were eliminated, but he knew that there was nothing he could do to avoid this.

He followed Acaeus blindly, obeying his hand signals and ignoring his mounting fear. As they reached the stairs, Acaeus stumbled, and Ronan surged forward to catch him before he could fall.

"Stay with me," he growled in effort, hooking an arm around Acaeus' waist. "And let me do the fighting, you're in no condition to—" he didn't even get through his argument before Acaeus nodded in agreement, and Ronan felt a new wave of panic. He had never known Acaeus to give up so easily. The two started their descent down the stairs, not stopping even when they stumbled.

"Okay," he breathed as they reached the first-floor landing. "Tell me where to go from here, Cae." 

"We'll need to leave—" he paused, catching his breath, "—through the tunnel by the fireplace in the commons. Remember where that is? Aevar's got the place surrounded, I checked before coming to get you. That's the only thing that'll spit us out far enough away from Solthorne to ensure our head start." Ronan glanced over at him as he started walking again, making sure Acaeus' limping gait was still matching his own.

"You said he has the place surrounded. Who does he have fighting for him?"

"Rhydel," Acaeus said gravely. "The war has finally come to our doorstep. My homeland's blades have reached even our throats, and they do not plan to show us mercy."

"Is Wynne—"

"Wynne's fine, I was able to warn her before finding you, and she can hold her own. Worry about yourself. You're the only one here who's irreplaceable."

Ronan shot Acaeus a look. "If we get out of this, I'm going to make sure you don't truly believe that."

" _When_ we get out of this," Acaeus corrected, "I will welcome the lecture."

By the time they reached the fireplace they had spoken of, deep within the noble living quarters, Acaeus' feet were dragging and Ronan had started to use his borrowed weapon as a walking stick. They'd had no encounters with the enemy, and silence was still reigning over the keep. He squared his jaw, setting Acaeus down on one of the numerous chairs littering the carpeted seating area while he turned to the mantle, tucking his fingers back behind the stonework and feeling for the familiar switch that would open the door to freedom. He leaned Stormbreaker against the wall and ducked his head to get a better view—he was suddenly deeply grateful that Wynne had insisted on showing them Solthorne's escape routes.

"Ronan," Acaeus breathed behind him. "Ronan, there's—" the prince held up a hand to signal him to wait but Acaeus gasped, lunging from his seat and grabbing Stormbreaker from its place by Ronan's side, jolting him from his search. He whirled around in time to see Acaeus' iridescent blue blade meet that of a red-clad soldier bearing the crossed trident seal of Rhydel on his chestplate.

"By the Seven," he breathed as he made eye contact with their foe. Time seemed to slow, and Acaeus held his ground with shaking hands. Ronan stood defenseless behind his knight, knowing that he could do nothing to prevent it if Acaeus was cut down. Another soldier entered the room, and his chest tightened.

No matter what had happened in the past, he never imagined that his death would come prior to his birthday. He'd always assumed that the prophecy had to be carried out as it was written, that it was impossible for it to go any differently—but standing here, weaponless and cornered, he began to have his doubts.

Ronan's eyes darted toward their escape route as Acaeus ducked out from the man's trap and launched his own attack, skilled even while his own blood ran in rivulets down his back. A plan solidified in his mind. If he acted as if he were as invincible as he once believed, he might just be reckless enough to get the job done.

Charging forward toward the second soldier with a cry, Ronan swung his fist, his knuckles striking the Rhydellan's jaw with a jolt of pain. His other hand grasped the arm that held their weapon, the exact kind Ronan happened to favor, and slammed their wrist back against the wall until their silver trident fell from their fingers.

As he heard a body fall to the floor behind him, followed by another, Ronan picked up the three-pronged spear and drove it through the soldier's chest, yanking it out moments later and letting the red-clad figure slide down the wall to the ground.

Ignoring the tremor in his fingers, Ronan turned to see the Rhydellan Acaeus had been fighting face down on the ground, with Acaeus half-collapsed against the wall beside him. Blood spattered his face, and he wiped some away with violently shaking fingers, waving off Ronan's concern and nodding toward the fireplace. He hauled himself up and positioned himself between the prince and the doorway.

Ronan crossed the room without saying a word, holding the stolen trident in one hand as he found the switch with the other. He pushed down on the smooth stone panel, nearly sobbing in relief as the hidden door beside the fireplace began to rumble open. He gestured to Acaeus, who waited until he was through the doorway before slipping in himself. Once inside, Ronan hit the switch on the wall before him, closing the door behind them and leaving him to lean back heavily against the wall as the light died out around them.

"One moment," Acaeus murmured as he sheathed his sword, and Ronan caught a glimpse of his concentrated expression as a few weak sparks ignited around his fingertips.

A blinding glow lit up the narrow tunnel they occupied, and Ronan found himself spellbound by the familiar crackle of electricity that danced around Acaeus' wrist and fingers, ready to leap at his command. They lit up the delicate scars on his face and hands, long-healed signs of the price one paid for an overextension of their magical ability. Their angular pattern matched the lightning's arcs, and Ronan had to tear his gaze from the man's hands.

"It's convenient, I'll give you that." Ronan's hands gently grasped Acaeus' shoulders and he turned him around, eyes fixed on the long, jagged gash across his shoulder blades, where more blood had stained his tunic.

"Are you—"

"I'll be fine," Acaeus promised. "Aevar didn't do much damage. It's fairly shallow, I don't think anything important was hit. It's mainly a surface wound, but damn if it doesn't hurt."

Ronan pushed down his concern, knowing that arguing over Acaeus' condition would get them nowhere. Staggering forward, he instead drew the man into a tight embrace, careful to avoid his injuries.

"I'm glad you're alive," he breathed, relaxing slightly as Acaeus' fingers trailed hesitantly over his back.

"And I'm glad I got to you on time." Acaeus' voice was a comforting rumble. "I don't know what I would have done if I'd—"

A crash sounded from the room beyond their hiding place and the two sprung apart, the lightning surging on Acaeus' free hand as Ronan's fingers tightened around the trident he'd nearly forgotten he held.

There were voices in the chamber beyond, most rough with the familiar Rhydellan accent he was so used to hearing when Acaeus spoke—but they were joined by one more. It was deep, and it echoed, and while none of the words were audible from his position, the air seemed to thrum with power around them.

Aevar had gotten tired of waiting.

As he leaned forward to press his ear against the stone, Acaeus tugged him away and pushed him forward, hissing something into his ear.

"Go. We need to get out now, or we'll never see the light of day again." Ronan stumbled but never stopped moving, knowing that Acaeus was as right.

"What about Solthorne?"

"Let it fall," Acaeus muttered. "Let them claim their victory—it won't last. The damn place was only home to us, after all, they'd just be putting their banners up on walls that only held three seeking refuge from the war. There's no glory or honor in that; they'll probably leave it be." The lightning flickered around Acaeus' hand, and he exhaled shakily. When Acaeus didn't continue Ronan glanced back, his eyes widening as the man fell against the side of the passage, his magic getting dangerously dim. Ronan grasped his shoulders before he could pitch forward.

"Not a serious wound, hm?" Ronan ignored the glare Acaeus gave him, instead focusing on the knight's back. He pulled up his tunic and winced. The injury was roughly the length of his forearm, and no matter how shallow, blood continued to stream from it. He glanced up at Acaeus' face, finding it sickly pale and beaded with sweat, and cursed vehemently.

Acaeus had a grim look in his eyes. "Keep going, I'll catch—"

"Quiet." Ronan cut him off with a look. "I'm not listening to one of your self-sacrificial monologues again. If you stay here you'll die, and I'm not letting that happen." He tore off a strip of his own tunic, placing it over his forearm as he undid the belt around his waist.

Working quickly, he pressed the cloth against the wound and bound the belt tightly around it to keep it in place, knowing it would undoubtedly be uncomfortable and may not be the best stand-in for actual first-aid, but it would do the trick while they got out of Solthorne.

"Ronan, if it comes down to it, you know it is my duty to give my life for yours." Ronan's fingers paused on the belt's buckle. "And it would be an honor as a member of your Circle—"

"Please." Ronan's voice broke. "I know the oath you took, I know what you've agreed to do for me. I'm begging you, please leave those things unsaid." Acaeus was silent for a moment, and then bowed his head in a nod.

"Of course," he murmured. "Forget I brought it up at all."

Ronan, finished with his questionable medical aid, extended a steadying hand to Acaeus, which he politely declined. He stood on his own, one of his arms raising stiffly to prop him up against the wall, but he looked stable for the most part—as much as he wished they could worry about proper medical care, they didn't have the luxury of time on their side.

It was with unsteady feet that the two picked their journey back up. Ronan's body ached harshly from the rough awakening and Acaeus' energy was lessening the longer he used his magic—if they weren't able to get out of Solthorne before his inevitable burnout, he wouldn't be surprised if they never made it beyond the walls.

"Take a right up here," Acaeus said from behind him. Ronan obeyed without question, shivering at the abrupt chill in the air. The farther they got from the keep, the harsher the temperature became. He would have been perfectly fine with that realization had he not been intimately familiar with the temperamental weather conditions of western Adacia; one moment it could be perfectly sunny, and the next a blizzard could descend without ever showing any signs of its approach.

"Any idea where we're going from here?" Ronan kept his voice low, listening to Acaeus' uneven steps to make sure he was still upright.

"None at all," he replied. "But I'd imagine Wynne will know, or at least have a suggestion."

Ronan considered something, his eyes sweeping the dead end they'd come upon for the mechanism that would open the door to the outside world.

"What about those ruins you've been investigating? It would be a rough ride, but that might ensure that no one would follow us. The snow could cover our tracks."

Acaeus made a disagreeable sound. "Are you talking about the Reach?"

"It's deserted, just as everything here is. It's our best bet."

"It's our most dangerous bet," Acaeus fired back. "It was deserted because of the vein of magic that place sits on, it messes with the Asir like nothing else, gives us power we wouldn't otherwise have. I think the Reach may be unwise."

"The Reach is the only place within twenty miles that can provide us with solace and shelter. We stay out in this weather too long, and Rhydel will be the least of our concerns."

Acaeus narrowed his eyes. "Magic veins are nothing to scoff at, Ronan. They do strange things to people without magic, too. I've been able to keep my wards up in the past but only when I've been fully alert, and right now I'm anything but. I couldn't shield you or Wynne, and I couldn't shield myself. Not being able to control my magic gave me these—" he pointed to the scars on his face that Ronan knew stretched down to his chest, "—and I don't want to risk what it could do to those around me. I'd rather brave the storms."

Locating the button that controlled the hidden door to the outside, he pushed it once and ushered Acaeus out into the night, pushing it one more time and slipping out before the door could close behind him.

They stood at the back of the keep, in the iced-over courtyard, which had at some point in the distant past teemed with life and joy. Glancing over at his companion, newly wary outside of their hidden passage, he set his jaw.

"As much as I'd love to keep us far away from any danger, Acaeus, we both know that in times like these, it's best not to be picky." Acaeus stared for a moment, taking in his words, and then nodded.

"Perhaps you're right," he muttered. "But remember—I warned you."

Ronan chose to ignore Acaeus' words along with any consequences his choice may have brought upon them. His body still hummed with adrenaline, and in the back of his mind part of him was still longing for the comfort of Shivaroth's willow grove and warm voice. But as much as he may have wished it, Serenvah was unreachable until he could fall asleep again, and with the current events, he was beginning to have doubts about how soon that would be.

"How are we getting out of here?" Ronan asked, adjusting his grip on the Rhydellan's trident.

"From what she told me when I saw her last, Wynne is at the stables. She'll have our mounts ready, and the stables are far enough away from the keep that the Rhydellans probably won't be able to see her." Acaeus gave him a grave look. "You should have seen them, Ronan. There had to be at least thirty soldiers, I saw them from the window. They had no leader, but I think that was only because he was preoccupied with you."

His hands shook violently. If Aevar was roaming Ishtel, the mortal realm, they had a new problem. When the gods left their own domain it only ever meant chaos.

"Almost there," Acaeus breathed, more to himself than to Ronan. "The stables are close, we'll make it." He took a deep breath, and repeated himself. "We'll make it."

Acaeus dropped his hand, looking down at his free one and realizing that lightning still danced around it. He extinguished it with a wince. With Stormbreaker sheathed at his back and his magic too weak to do much damage, Ronan felt a sudden jolt as he realized that for the time being, he was the only half of their duo with a fighting chance. He was the protector, and not the charge. While he didn't doubt his abilities, it was a change in position that he didn't particularly like. Acaeus laughed roughly, and Ronan raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

"One of your damn gods just fought me," the man said with a shaky grin. "That _was_ Aevar, right?"

"It was," Ronan murmured.

Acaeus shook his head. "You worship the Three, this shit is unheard of. Never happens. A much safer way to go about religion, if you ask me." Ronan snorted.

"I'll take note," he muttered. "If I wasn't too caught up with the Seven, I would have happily started to worship the Three years ago. They seem much more manageable than gods that want to claim your life and talk to you in your sleep. I've never even spoken to the other five, but at this point, I don't think I want to. I swear, if I get through this, I may just run off into the mountains and become some non-believing vagrant."

The two shared a grin and continued their trek through the snow. It was up to his shins, and with the way the weather had been recently, Ronan wouldn't have been surprised if by the time they got to the Reach it was up to his knees. He supposed all he could do was hope the weather held out ahead of them. If they could stay ahead of the storm, they may very well be able to get out of Solthorne without having to worry about hypothermia. A cloud rolled over the moon, and Ronan sighed. Perhaps someone would take pity on them and break their dismal track record. Though it was likely that all that awaited them was a continuation of the usual violent weather, he couldn't help but hope for the best.

Despite their brief moment of respite, it would be some kind of arrogance to assume they were out of danger so soon. They had both been in enough of these battles and unfortunate situations to know it—neither were strangers to war, no matter how hard they tried to distance themselves from its grasp. It seemed to follow the Circle with an unshakable grip, and they had always known it would catch up. Part of him wished it would have found them later, the rest of him was reasonable. Aevar was coming for him, and there had never been any chance that the god of strife was going to go about the hunt with subtlety. Glancing over his shoulder, Ronan shot the darkness a searching look.

No matter what was to come, he didn't intend on losing himself. He was not one for war, or for murder. Gods had been killed before and Shivaroth's demise was proof of that—it wasn't terribly far-fetched to believe Aevar could be the next to fall. Despite that, despite it all, Ronan was dead set on one thing: he would not take up the mantle of _Avok'Shai_ , Godslayer.

"Cae." Acaeus glanced back at the sound of his voice, his lips drawn in pain as he fought to keep his breathing under his control.

"Hm?"

"How much farther do you think you can go?" The two ducked out from under the canopy of trees, skirting along the edge of an uneven road that led down to the stables.

"As far as I have to," Acaeus said simply. "We both know this is nothing compared to what it could have been."

Ronan didn't respond, keeping his eyes fixed on the road behind him as they drew ever closer to their destination, as impossibly far as it may have seemed at the beginning of their short journey. His head still throbbed from his abrupt severance from the dream realm. He found himself longing again for the endless night of Serenvah, so blissfully disconnected from Ishtel.

"When we get to the stables, we ride like there are legions of soldiers behind us. We don't stop for anyone, we don't look back, we just go for the Reach. Agreed?" Acaeus glanced back as Ronan nodded his assent.

As the stables came into view, he finally let his shoulders relax. The three horses tied up before them tossed their heads in the rising wind, burdened with light saddlebags that looked to carry enough to keep the Circle alive for a while. The door to the small wooden shack swung open and Wynne rushed out, greeting Ronan with a nod and slinging her bow over her shoulder, wasting no time on tearful reunions.

"Did anyone follow you?"

"Not to my knowledge," Acaeus said breathlessly, putting a soothing hand against the neck of his usual mount, a wild-mannered silver mare whose temper matched the knight's own. He glanced back at Wynne. "Is everything ready?"

"Everything I could grab is in the saddlebags," Wynne confirmed. "Where are we headed?"

"The Reach." Ronan's voice cut in, and he slid his trident through a loop on his own steed's saddlebags. He hooked a toe through his stallion's stirrup and swung up, waiting as Wynne untied the three horses before climbing onto her own. Acaeus followed with a wince, and as Ronan started forward, the two knights fell back easily, flanking their prince out of habit.

"We ride through the night; we don't stop for anything. I doubt it'll be safe to return here for a long while, so for now we're on our own." Wynne had to raise her voice to be heard over the rising storm.

As Ronan tightened his grip on his reins and squinted ahead into the night, a jolt of some unknowable emotion arced through his mind, coming to rest at the base of his spine. He pulled back on his reins almost unconsciously. Stopped. He heard a single heavy footstep fall behind him, and he broke his only rule.

He looked back.

Standing barefoot in the middle of the path behind him was Aevar, with his mane of red hair blowing back around his body with a strange grace. His eyes were piercing, his grin like ice, the shock of blue warpaint adorning his face only sharpening his features.

Ronan stayed silent.

The god stepped forward, surveying his prey. Wynne and Acaeus did nothing, and Ronan gradually forgot they were there, his vision narrowing down to just Aevar, who had a glimmer of excitement in his step.

"Ronan," he said with a sharp tug of his lips. His broken blade remained sheathed, but he continued advancing, and Ronan felt his reins get yanked from his hands by someone outside of his view. There was a mighty yell that he faintly registered as Acaeus and the clouds split above them, sending bolts of lightning, blue with Acaeus' magic, cracking down in lances around the god before them. His horse reared, Ronan's eyes widened, and he was whipped back around by a rough hand on his shoulder as the three of the Circle plunged forward into the night.

An odd haze had settled itself around Ronan's mind, and he found himself shifting sideways, threatening to fall, but the hand on his shoulder tugged him upward as his swaying vision started to refocus on the blur of scenery. His breath arced through him with a sharp pain, and they raced down into one of the many valleys of the west. 


	3. III. Heart of Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the circle flees, an ally's motivations are questioned, and aevar bides his time.

By the time morning dawned, it all seemed like a cruel dream. In the red light of the rising sun, Ronan was able to see the blood in Wynne's hair, the stark pain in Acaeus' eyes, the steady tremor in his own hands.

Solthorne had fallen, and it had brought the Circle with it.

They were lucky enough to find themselves almost to the Reach unfollowed. Aevar had let them go relatively unscathed, with the exception of his attempt to "even the playing field" with Acaeus' injury. Outside of some sick lust for a challenge, Ronan couldn't begin to place why he'd done it.

Over the night, the snowfall had only increased. As they rode, their mounts were nearly up to their knees, and no matter what their plan, it was no doubt that they'd need to stay indoors until the mounting storm passed. Ronan turned to Wynne, an exhausted defeat in his eyes.

"The Reach won't be safe for long, but it'll give us the time we need to prepare for another attack. I'm going to contact Shivaroth." This drew Acaeus' attention, as fleeting as it was, and his eyes sharpened.

"How do you know he's not with them? There are too many risks. You can't."

"Is that so?" Ronan stared at the road ahead. "I seem to remember you thought it was a brilliant idea yesterday."

"He has a point, child," Wynne chimed in. "It may be too heavy a coincidence that Aevar showed up when he did." She gave him a pointed look, and Ronan flushed.

"You know," he said.

"Of course I know. Whenever you begin to lose hope, you turn back to Shivaroth. I had a feeling you would, and the look in your eyes when we left confirmed it." Wynne watched him as she spoke, and Ronan pushed down his embarrassment.

There was nothing he wanted more than to throw himself head first into Serenvah—its towering halls of branches called to him, and it was easy to see why so many other Heralds of Shivaroth had fallen to the temptation of turning from the mortal realm.

"He wouldn't betray me," Ronan said with a level blind trust Acaeus often frowned upon. "He has as much to lose from this as we do."

"Does he?" Wynne raised a brow. "He's not the one that has his death marked on a calendar."

Ronan ran a gloved hand through his hair.

"I'm his Herald. He has said he would do anything to help us. Shivaroth has no leverage to gain by lying, he's a forgotten god—with a fearsome amount of power, yes, but not power he would use against us."

Shivaroth did not seem to be of the treacherous sort—he honored relationships above power and knowledge above all. Though he had been militant in his early years as an immortal and just as arrogant as Aevar, he had come to see his place and understood it as a duty to mortals, an oath to protect those that needed protecting. While his mantle was Dreamweaver, at his full power his reach had stretched far beyond Serenvah—he was the patron of minstrels and wanderers, guardians and martyrs, the poor and weak. Healers prayed to him for mercy and gentleness and he responded with all he could give.

Despite his flaws, Ronan knew him to have a good heart. He wouldn't believe the attack had been orchestrated by him. He couldn't.

"Hey." Ronan glanced up at the sound of Wynne's voice, and she nodded to the sight that sat ahead of them—the spires and columns of the Reach stretched up out of the snow, and Ronan exhaled heavily. The temple was built into the stone of the mountain, and the carved doors were visible from their position.

"Thank the Three," Acaeus muttered. "I don't think I could have made it much farther." Sparing a glance at the knight, Ronan's cheeks paled with the sight of how much the blood had spread. It was obvious that what would have been a triviality had turned into something more, and his fingers tightened around his reins.

"I'll patch you up when we get there," Ronan offered. Acaeus raised an eyebrow—Wynne normally did that work, which made the prince's offer just one more thing that had fallen out of the ordinary.

"Sure. As long as you don't make anything worse, I'll find some way to thank you later." Acaeus looked away, toward the Reach. The snow bit at Ronan's exposed face, and he urged his horse forward.

The previously sacred site had been desecrated and deserted long ago, but the grounds still held a soul-rending feeling of power as they entered. Their horses seemed skittish, and Acaeus' gray eyes immediately lit up blue as the magic of the Reach interacted with his own.

They made their way down an old path, tied up their horses in a stable that looked as if it had been deserted long before the collapse of the order that resided there, and pushed open the doors to the monastery. The halls were anything but welcoming, and Wynne lit one of the old torches, casting light on the ancient carvings that adorned the walls.

As they walked forward, Acaeus exhaled sharply.

"This place is wrong," he muttered, echoing his earlier sentiments. "It was wrong to come here." Every muscle in him was tense, as if he wished he could bolt for the door, but he stayed by Ronan's side.

"We won't be here long." Ronan's voice was small. "Trust me, I don't want to stay any longer than we have to."

"There were dark things done here," Acaeus warned. "Dark rituals. Old magic, for the old gods. I don't think the Seven were as loved here as you claimed."

"How do you know those things?" Wynne turned back to them to ask, letting the torch flicker in the darkness.

"I've been coming here for weeks, but I've never entered with my wards down. I can feel the places where the magic was tampered with, pulled on, abused. Every spell you can think of has an effect on the veins of magic that run through our realm, and if you're in tune enough, you can feel them." Acaeus grimaced. "You don't have to be in tune with anything to feel this. The magic here is too strong—I'm surprised it didn't overwhelm my wards to begin with."

Ronan chose to ignore Acaeus' ominous tone, and stopped him near a door with a gentle hand on his wrist.

"We should take care of your back before you keel over." Acaeus eyed him, then nodded. Ronan turned his attention to Wynne. "Will you—"

"I'll go find us somewhere to sleep." She smiled, pulling another torch off the wall and holding it to the other, handing it to Ronan once it had been lit. "Be careful. Shout if you're in danger."

"Same to you," Ronan murmured. While Wynne continued down the hall, he and Acaeus ducked into what appeared to be a small chapel, with crumbling stone pews and an ancient carving of the Seven that stretched as high as the towering ceiling. Acaeus fell back onto one of the benches as soon as Ronan released his wrist in favor of the bag slung over his shoulder once he'd set the torch in a carved sconce.

Acaeus steadied his breathing, gazing up at the ceiling. The tension in the air was palpable, but they both ignored it. Ronan gestured for Acaeus to remove the cloak he'd put on as they'd ridden and pull up his shirt. As the knight discarded the makeshift bandage they'd fashioned the night before, his face drained of what little color it still held with a hiss of pain.

"Is it still bleeding?" Ronan didn't look up from his bag as he asked, but Acaeus didn't seem to mind.

"Don't think so. I'm lucky Aevar didn't decide to—" He winced as he experimentally flexed his shoulders. "Skewer me."

"It's looking like he still did a number on you," Ronan murmured, feeling himself relax as he pulled out a roll of bandages. He could feel Acaeus' eyes on the back of his neck as he worked.

"Ronan?"

"Hm?"

"Look at me for a moment, will you?"

Ronan sighed, turning around and meeting Acaeus' eyes. The knight studied him for a moment, taking in his unruly curls and uncharacteristically solemn face before he spoke.

"Are you alright?"

The question itself was enough to cause Ronan to sink into a chair of his own, clutching the bandages in shaking hands.

"I've been better," he muttered. "Though I think that's true for each of us."

"Yes," Acaeus said dryly, "but I was asking about you."

He thought for a moment, curling his fingers in so his nails bit into the skin of his palms.

"I don't think I'm scared." The words tumbled from his lips. "I'm angry. Angry that I—I dragged you and Wynne into this, I guess. And Zia, wherever she is. You don't deserve to be targeted by a god, this is nothing but a suicide mission, and I'm bringing you down with me."

"Ronan, you didn't force us to join you. We're here of our own accord." Acaeus sat forward.

"I know that." Ronan nodded. "I know. But I can't shake the feeling that this—this won't go well. That this is all going to crumble, and—gods, forget it. I'm scared. I'm _terrified_. You don't deserve what's coming, none of us do, and yet here it waits, with a gaping maw that whispers of destiny." He stood, shaking his head. "There's no escaping this. Not anymore. I just fear what's to come."

"Me, too." Ronan's eyes snapped to Acaeus. He wasn't one to admit his fears or weaknesses, but his voice was relaxed and full of candor. "I think it's impossible not to fear it, you shouldn't be ashamed. You're walking with a prophecy on your shoulders, and that's not something that you can dismiss with a grin." With a heavy exhale, Acaeus pushed himself to his feet, putting a hand on his shoulder. "There is much to fear. I won't even begin to lie and say otherwise. But despite everything that's trying to hold us back, I swear that we're with you. Wynne is loyal to you and only you, and I as well. We stand beside you, always."

Ronan bit his lip.

"What if we fail?"

Acaeus offered him a sad smile. "Maybe we will. But what choice do we have? I'm not about to give up on you."

He sat back down, dropping his hand from Ronan's shoulder and staying still and obedient as the prince began to wind the bandages around his chest and back. Ronan's mind was racing.

"We're running out of time," he said. "Maybe we should think about getting Zia here, she said she wanted me to send a raven when we had something to fight." A smile flitted over his lips.

"No harm in that. She may be queen now, but I can't imagine that's done anything to quench her bloodlust. I swear, she can fight like no one I've ever seen." Acaeus winced as Ronan tightened the bandages. "If we're going up against a god, we're going to need her help." Acaeus looked thoughtful. "You know, I have a few favors of my own I can call in."

"No." Ronan caught his meaning immediately. "You can't go to the Ravenpledged, Cae. If you want to talk about suicide missions, there's another good one."

"It may work—my sister is with them, you know, and Calysia wouldn't hesitate to send aid if she knew I was in danger."

"And what of the rest? Those of them that believe you killed their last leader?"

"They're not my problem. _Marikei_ isn't my problem. The bastard set me up, and if his followers want to believe him, let them. I was only there to catch my breath on my way to Adacia Proper, there's no way I could have done what they say I did."

Ronan shook his head, but kept working while Acaeus spoke.

"Besides, the goddess they serve is one of the Three, Ro. Ashtei is the patron of justice—her ways have a side of mercy, and so do those of the Ravenpledged. They wouldn't retaliate once they knew I was innocent."

"They're a cult," Ronan muttered.

"They're a church of fighters. We could benefit from that kind of backing, you can't ignore that. Corrupt leader or no, they're powerful."

Acaeus was undeniably right, and his boldness in bringing up one of their "forbidden topics" was enough to stop Ronan from questioning him further. He tied off the bandage that he had been holding stationary in his hands and pulled back, sighing.

"Just promise me you won't do anything without consulting Wynne and I first." His touch lingered on Acaeus' arm, an unconscious act. "I will do the same. We can't afford to lose anyone, much less lose them over a foolish act of heroics." He fixed Acaeus with a meaningful look. "Especially not one of yours."

Acaeus studied him, stood, and meandered over to run his hands along the backs of the pews. He walked down the aisle, his boots kicking up dust. His eyes were trained on the stone faces of the Seven high above.

"Do you ever wonder why they're even here?" His voice echoed around the chamber, and when he reached the statues, he reached out a hand and ran his fingers along the carved folds of stone. "Why the Seven took the throne from the Three? Why even now, when they've stopped protecting us, they still ask for our worship?"

"Acaeus, you're avoiding the point." Ronan hesitantly wandered down the aisle himself, out of the small circle of light his torch had provided.

"I'm being serious. They expect us to pledge ourselves to them without question, how are we supposed to react to that? Your gods are strange creatures. They take from you and act as if it's an act of mercy."

"And the Three are that much better?" There was no hostility in his voice, only a genuine curiosity. Ronan stood at the final pew before the statues, watching Acaeus take them in.

"No. Not at all. Gods are cruel no matter who they are. No one that holds that much power can be trusted, no matter how much they may smile or offer you peace. They will always see themselves as higher than you, as a superior being. They are no better than us, their mortal counterparts; the only thing that puts them above us is their ability to kill any of us that they wish to with nothing but a word."

There was a thunderous crash from deeper in the monastery, and Ronan shot to attention as Acaeus whirled away from the statues. Their conversation forgotten, they rushed down the aisle shoulder to shoulder, peering out the doorway. Ronan gripped the torch he'd discarded while Acaeus picked up Ronan's bag and slung it over his shoulder, the two edging out into the hallway, standing together against the darkness.

They'd gathered everything and were fully prepared to make their escape, but their panic eased when Wynne stepped from the darkness, shielding her eyes from their light.

"You need to see this," she said, voice low. Ronan and Acaeus exchanged a glance.

"See what?"

"Just come with me. Hurry." Wynne turned and they fell into step behind her, both with their hands still ready to fly to their weapons at a moment's notice.

Tension was all that kept him moving—despite his exhaustion, his mind and body refused to fall, and he held his head up and his back straight. It took everything he had to keep his hands steady, but he knew that if they were safe, he would be able to rest soon. He would be able to speak to Shivaroth. As long as he got through this, he could allow himself to fall apart.

"We'll be safe for a bit," Wynne said grimly ahead of them. "The doors down here will keep anything out. Now, it—it's not ideal. Acaeus, you'll dislike this, but please remember that we don't have much of a choice in where we take shelter." Acaeus' eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"I wish you would just lie and say you'd found us a nice, comfortable place to sleep. Lying wouldn't kill you." Acaeus' steps faltered as he spoke. "That rift in magic," he muttered. "It's getting—my gods, Wynne, are you taking us to some kind of ritual chamber?"

Wynne grimaced.

"I may be taking us past one."

"Oh, joy," Ronan muttered, continuing to follow Wynne while Acaeus stopped dead in his tracks. "Just what I was hoping for. Very homey." Wynne snorted.

They stopped briefly before a set of large, carved doors; Acaeus approached as a skittish animal would a trap, while Ronan walked forward and ran his hand over the carvings. A nauseating wave of power hit him.

There was a visceral tug in his chest, and his breath hitched. The doors called for blood, they thrummed beneath his hands and reached out, speaking his name—

—but Acaeus' arms hooked around his chest and pulled him back.

"Easy, now," he whispered in Ronan's ear, releasing him when he was sure the prince could stand on his own. "That door has a blood seal." He spoke louder this time, so Wynne could hear.

"I know." She said simply. "I'm no stranger to blood magic, child. The Isle of Lyr has its own demons."

That sparked his curiosity. The Isle of Lyr was small, and Wynne's village, Anacante, had been sized accordingly. Her mother was a hunter, her father a sailor; he couldn't help but wonder what piece of the village's benign exterior had fallen away to reveal the treacherous Sphere of Magic that Wynne spoke of. Ronan eventually raised an eyebrow, but didn't question her further—it was not his place. Acaeus gave her a suspicious glance but followed his lead. Wynne kept walking, nodding to a door at the end of the hall.

"This is where we will stay. It's a small room, fully secure. There's another door in the back if we need to make a quick exit. If we stay here tonight and set out within the next few days, we may be able to stay hidden." Wynne opened the door—the room was indeed small, with four old bedrolls pressed against the back wall and a decrepit fireplace in the corner. The tapestries that had once adorned the walls had fallen in faded heaps on the floor. Ronan nodded slowly.

"This will work."

He was desperate to sleep, desperate to speak to Shivaroth, and desperate to seek aid from the other side of the mountains. On their side was Solthorne and the ruins of Old Adacia but no towns, no kingdoms to lend their hands. On the western side was Ferenheld Seat, the citadel where Adacian rulers were traditionally crowned, and the bigger port towns. If he could get a letter to Zia, she may be able to meet him near one of them.

"I think we should make our way to the western coast when we get the chance," Ronan muttered. "Get word to Zia, assemble what forces we can. If Aevar has the Rhydellans on his side, he has an army—and we are ten thousand men short of a force that could hold them back."

Glancing around, he saw that Acaeus and Wynne seemed just as exhausted as he. Riding through the night had been enough to wear them down. They nodded, but didn't comment, and he took it as a victory and decided to let it drop. He needed sleep, and so did they.

"If you don't mind," he said, "I think I'd like to get some rest."

"Of course." Wynne took her bow from her shoulder and set it on the broken table in the corner. "I'll take first watch, then."

As Ronan went to take the bedroll nearest the door, he saw that Wynne had wedged the top of a chair beneath the handle of the other exit. No matter how safe the Reach seemed, he knew they had to be cautious—even so, the presence of the barricade unsettled him.

Acaeus took up a seat near the door, putting his sword across his lap and leaning his head back against the wall, careful not to rest his shoulders, undoubtedly in pain, against the stone. He didn't speak as Wynne left the room, or when Ronan leaned back against the bedroll, fully content with ignoring its dust and imperfections. He'd learned long ago not to be picky.

He closed his eyes the second his head rested against the cloth, and fell asleep not long after.

When he opened them again it was not to the vibrant hues of Serenvah, but to a crushing darkness, an empty space, a nothingness so intense and vicious that his heart stuttered in his chest. He walked forward a few paces, his chest light in the way it always was when he dreamed, while at the same time a weight pressed down so hard on his shoulders that it threatened to force him to his knees. Ronan's breath was forced from his lungs, the paradoxical sensations enough to overwhelm him.

He opened his mouth. Risked a word through chapped lips. "Shivaroth?" There was no response, no echo, no presence carried on a light breeze. Whatever this place was, it was not Serenvah. It was no dream realm; it was nothing that came close to anything he had ever seen. It held some unspeakable power that offered to curl around his soul if he let it, a concept that struck him as so deeply terrifying that it made his hands tremble.

The only other thing he could see in the darkness was the door to the chamber he had passed while walking through the Reach, carved and intricate, stained with blood.

He had to wake up. This place was evil. Its darkness was comforting, the deep blacks and grays promising safety, but his body reacted to it and the door with an intense fear, an aversion he couldn't explain. Perhaps it was the solitude, the silence, the absence of familiarity.

It didn't occur to him that perhaps something was wrong with Serenvah itself until his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright in his bedroll with the distinct sensation of a hand on the back of his neck. The room he awoke to was the same one he'd been in when he'd fallen asleep, identical save for the fact that Wynne had taken Acaeus' place by the door, her eyes closed and her cheek resting awkwardly against her own shoulder, undisturbed by Ronan's uneven breathing. He was grateful she hadn't woken up—Wynne was not one to let things go easily, and he was certain that if she saw even a glimpse of his sweat-soaked hair and shaking limbs, he would be condemned to forfeit his place at the front of their party so he could rest.

There was no doubt in Ronan's mind that falling asleep after that would be impossible. Whether it was a ploy of Shivaroth's or a plague on Serenvah, it had shaken him to his core, and he found himself staring at the darker corners in the room in a suspicious haze.

He didn't feel like he'd slept at all, but when he emerged from the back room dizzy and unsteady, he found that there was no longer daylight streaming through the windows but the pitch black of midnight, cold and unsettling. It must have been a few hours at least, though it had felt like mere seconds.

Acaeus looked up as he shut the door behind him, his eyes immediately widening.

"By the Three, what happened to you?"

"Bad dream," Ronan said hoarsely, keeping a hand on the wall to steady himself. Acaeus stood and walked over to him, guiding him over to the ancient stool he'd been sitting on for watch duty and lowering him onto it.

"I wasn't aware bad dreams made people look like walking corpses." Acaeus pushed back the damp curls of hair that were plastered to Ronan's forehead, feeling his temperature with the back of his hand. He frowned in dismay. "You're freezing."

"You're warm," Ronan countered. "Everyone I've met from your island has always been ridiculously warm." He was fully aware he didn't sound like himself—his eyes, glazed over and hazy, slid over Acaeus' concerned face and landed on the window, gaze locking on the snow-turned-sleet that was hammering against the glass.

"Do you think you could get back to sleep? You look...I think you need to get some more rest. You could sleep here, if that would help. I could wake you up if you needed me to."

"Can't sleep again," Ronan murmured. "Something is wrong."

"Something's wrong? Ronan, what do you—"

Someone pounded at the door to the Reach. Three frantic knocks, then three more, then a desperate push that forced the door inward, the telltale creak of its hinges echoing through the hall and reverbing in Ronan's chest. He knew this feeling. He knew it.

"Something is _wrong_ ," he repeated in a keening whisper as Acaeus drew his sword and Ronan slid from the stool to stand beside him. The sounds of the storm were audible through the newly opened door. Behind them, Wynne rushed from the back room, coming to stand in front of them with an arrow drawn tight on her bowstring.

"What was that?" Her voice was a harsh whisper.

"Someone's here," Acaeus replied, positioning himself so he was standing in front of Ronan and behind Wynne. Two levels of defense—if both failed, he would meet the blade of whoever awaited them on the other side.

Wynne started down the hallway and gestured for Acaeus to do the same. They made a swift but cautious beeline for the door, keeping their weapons readied and their eyes narrowed.

There were no torches to light their way past a certain point, and when Wynne and Acaeus halted near the entrance, Ronan felt a tug in his chest. He had a path to follow.

He shut his eyes, knowing that Wynne and Acaeus were too preoccupied to notice his departure, and followed the pull. Ronan knew, somewhere beneath the nightmare's residual haziness, that this was a bad idea, one that could get him killed, but he kept moving until he reached a door and slipped through it, his eyes scanning his new surroundings.

The room was familiar—it was the chapel he had wandered through before, though this time the dust on the floor was disturbed by a trail of water and dragging footprints. His gaze followed the path the water made, at the end of it finding someone staring up at the towering statues of the Seven, their head tilted up toward the stone faces and their hair hanging in soaked curls around their shoulders. They didn't show any sign that they knew Ronan was there. They didn't move, didn't speak, they simply stood and stared.

Ronan began to walk forward down the aisle, toward the figure that stood dwarfed by the carved visages of the gods. He stopped when he was a few feet behind them, weaponless, completely unprepared for their attack should they think to launch one. Trusting. Weak.

"Are you lost?" The figure stiffened at his voice, then let out a disbelieving breath. One of their hands rose to their face, covered by the long sleeve of an elaborate red and purple coat that swept the ground. Their shoulders shook, but it didn't seem to be from the cold. They didn't turn, and Ronan tried again.

"I can help you if you need it. My name—"

"Is Ronan Aldrea," the stranger finished, turning in a way that let their eyes catch the light. They were dark and scared, fully black. While taller than Ronan by a good foot and a half, they seemed small and inconsequential before the statues that served as their backdrop. They turned farther, and Ronan's eyes widened in recognition.

His hair was down and spread over his shoulders, his skin ashen blue and soaked from sleet, the red markings on his face jarringly visible against the darkness of the chapel. Ronan's breath hissed out from between his teeth. Through swimming vision, he watched the figure descend the stairs and welcomed their offered embrace, raising his arms to meet it.

"Shivaroth," he whispered. His knees were shaking. Behind them, the door was forced open farther, and Ronan heard an arrow strike the stone of the statues behind them, shattering on impact after flying only inches away from their heads, causing them both to flinch. A warning shot, Ronan realized. That had been Wynne, and Wynne did not miss.

"Release him." Wynne's voice was strong, not altered by exhaustion or fear. "Let go of the prince and let me see your hands."

Ronan dropped his arms from Shivaroth's coat, stepping in front of him and shaking his head. "Wynne, it's okay. It's just—"

"Step out of the way, Ronan."

Ronan's legs, still shaking and weak, decided to fail him. He gasped, his hands flying out in an attempt to find purchase on the back of one of the benches, but Shivaroth caught him from behind and lowered him to the ground, causing Wynne to fire another shot over them both and Shivaroth to press his hand against Ronan's cheek. The god's hands were cool against his skin.

" _Akra liho ankha ti en?_ " Shivaroth whispered, translating seconds later in a flowing, accented version of the Adacian language. "What has happened to you? Look at me, dear one, do not close your eyes. Look at me."

Ronan, deaf to his pleas and Wynne's threats, shut his eyes and let his breath exit his lungs in a shallow exhale, sinking into the familiar grasp of a place beyond his body.


	4. IV. Blood Prophecy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ronan & shivaroth learn more of the prophecy; aevar makes it clear that he is not to be trifled with.

When Ronan woke, it was to raised voices and a relentless pounding behind his eyes. He was in the center of a small room, in a bed heaped with furs that smelled of dust and smoke, and it suddenly dawned on him that he had no idea how he'd gotten there. He pushed back the furs, surprised at the ache in his bones and the tightness of his skin, and put his bare feet against the floor.

The voices outside the door only heightened.

He walked forward gingerly, taking painstaking care to navigate through his shifting vision. Something was wrong, that much he knew, but at the very least he could take comfort in the fact that they hadn't been attacked—he figured that he wouldn't have been allowed to sleep if they had.

His fingers shook as he reached for the door handle, and he looked at them with dismay. A flash of hazy memory surfaced with a flare of pain in his head, memory of a realm of nothing and a chapel full of towering gods. He pushed the memories away and opened the door.

The shouting ceased. There were three sets of eyes on him instead of the two he'd been expecting. Acaeus', wide and slightly manic, Wynne's, narrowed and suspicious, and one more, one black and glassy and defensive. Shivaroth's.

"Ronan," he breathed as their eyes met. "You are—" Shivaroth moved to step forward, a hint of a smile on his lips, but Acaeus darted between them, Stormbreaker drawn, its tip steady and leveled at Shivaroth's throat.

"Easy," Acaeus warned with a glare. "Easy."

Ronan stared at Shivaroth from behind Acaeus' armored shoulder. Shivaroth stared back, his hands raised in surrender, blue skin ashen and pale.

"Don't get any closer than that." Acaeus sheathed his sword, looking closely at both of them before stepping to the side.

Ronan glanced at the semi-circle around him, entirely uncertain of the extent of the hostility in the room. Shivaroth's presence was somehow unsurprising, even while anything that could have explained it was lost in the odd haze that had settled over his mind.

"If we're done with the threats of violence," Wynne said slowly, "I suggest we catch Ronan up to speed."

Shivaroth began to pace, and fleeting bits of memory began to resurface in Ronan's memory. Panic, peace, arms around him as his back rested against stone. Still not enough to go on, not enough to piece together any narrative. Acaeus spoke before he could spend more time pondering.

"Shivaroth is mortal, Ronan had some kind of nightmare, and there have been Rhydellan hunting horns sounding for the last half hour. We still need to leave by morning but have nowhere to go, and we will begin to run low on rations if we aren't able to get out of the mountains soon. Any questions?"

"Mortal?" Ronan whispered the word as if it were something evil. He looked Shivaroth up and down, from his bare feet to his blank eyes. He took a deep breath.

"That may not be the right word for it," Shivaroth murmured. "I have been cut off from my power in Feihjelm and bound to Ishtel, but I have yet to discover the extent of my apparent mortality." He spoke with such an intense reverence that Ronan found himself unable to speak more than a word.

"How?"

"I don't know," Shivaroth murmured. "Only five people alive know how to bring a god to Ishtel against their will. Me, Calyseus, a young girl who lives in the slums of the Rhydellan capital city, and—" Shivaroth's eyes narrowed. "And Aevar."

"So, what, you think he wanted to even the playing field?" Ronan eased himself into a chair, exhaling slowly to avoid a wince. "That would certainly fit his track record."

"And what would my presence give him? A challenge? A chance at more senseless violence? Perhaps all he wants is an opportunity to confront me for my opposition to his plan, I do not know." Shivaroth shook his head. "The rumor in Feihjelm is that Aevar took a mortal form by his own wishes. I cannot imagine why anyone would want you to be in control of my power in this situation, but here you are and here I am, and if you attempt to use me for your personal gain—"

Ronan's eyes widened. "Shivaroth, I'm not going to use you like some kind of weapon. No matter what was intended by your arrival, you have to know I did not want this for you."

Shivaroth studied him, the pain in his eyes making it clear that he was desperate to believe that Ronan had no hand in this, but unable to allow himself to let his guard down.

"So, this doesn't seem a bit too coincidental to anyone but me?" All eyes turned to Acaeus. "Two gods in one day? Now, what are the odds of that?"

"Assuming Aevar is behind this won't get us anywhere," Ronan cut in, turning to fix Acaeus with a look that clearly said this was a conversation to have later. "And neither will trying to pin the blame on anyone else."

"So what do you propose?" Wynne asked. "We need to get out of the mountains, we all know this. It'll give us more room to run and a way to get supplies, but we also need to remember that it will be no safer down there. Adacia is at war, and Rhydel controls most major cities. Your people are preoccupied, they won't be able to help us fight off a god."

"Well, maybe those two forces aren't as far apart as we're thinking." Ronan rested his chin on steepled fingers. "Aevar rode with the Rhydellans as their leader, did he not?"

"You're right," Acaeus muttered at the same time as Shivaroth said, "Aevar?"

The god glanced around the room, realization slowly dawning on his features.

"This isn't Solthorne."

"No," Ronan said, "it most certainly isn't."

"Were you attacked?"

Glancing up at Acaeus, Ronan gestured for him to explain. Wynne was rifling through one of their bags in the far corner. While Acaeus gave Shivaroth the run-down of the previous evening, he pushed himself out of the chair and walked over to Wynne, sighing deeply.

"Ronan," she said in greeting. He raised a hand in a tired wave. "Any idea where we should go next?"

He glanced down as she pulled out the item she'd been searching for—it was an old map, torn roughly at the edges. He recognized it as one of the many that had been hanging in Solthorne's libraries. She must have grabbed it from its frame before they made their escape.

"Absolutely no idea, but I know we need to contact Zia. Maybe we can—"

"Think about that later," Wynne said gently. "I agree that we should find Zia, but right now getting to safety is the priority."

Ronan opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again after a moment. She was right.

"In that case..." Ronan ran a finger along the path out of the mountains. "If we go through Seven's Pass, we can avoid most of the war camps. The highway it puts us on is a bit of an issue, though. Most of these cities were taken by Rhydel last we heard."

"Lumous was taken, yes, but was Illirium? Do you know?"

Illirium. Ronan shuddered. The city itself was built within the hollowed shell of a mountain, which made it incredibly difficult to invade, but nearly impossible to escape. It was completely lacking in natural light and powered by the magic veins it stood upon—it had one of the highest Asir populations in Adacia.

"I think they were still free, but would they allow us in? By now people know that all that follows us is danger."

"Well," Wynne said slowly. "They don't need to know who we are, do they?"

Ronan gave her a slight smile. "I suppose they don't."

"It'll take us a day or so to get there. If we manage to get a message to Zia, as you were suggesting, we could have her meet us at the Port of Llyran. That's only a few hours northeast of the city."

"Hey, Ronan?" He glanced over his shoulder as Acaeus called his name.

"Hm?"

"I know people in Illirium. People that owe me some favors."

Ronan raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?"

"Members of my old crew from the fleet. Taryn owns an armory and Arterus runs an inn. I don't know if either of them are still around, but if they are, they should be willing to help us out."

Ronan nodded slowly, turning back to the map. Something occurred to him. "Will the magic veins there give you any trouble?"

"No," Acaeus said definitively. "They're more diluted, if that makes sense. They're not as close to the surface as the ones here. If they were, it wouldn't be such a desired settlement for magic practitioners."

The prince tapped his knuckles against the table as he thought. "We head to Illirium, then. Stay with Acaeus' contact, find Zia from there. It'll be safer than here, at least." He shuddered, recalling Acaeus' warning against the Reach the night before, and the dream that he was sure had been influenced by the veins of magic that ran beneath them. He was glad that the same fate didn't await them in Illirium.

He glanced at Shivaroth, who'd remained silent. "Shiva, are you—"

Though his eyes were fixed on the opposite wall in a daze, Shivaroth preempted the end of his question. "Yes, I will come with you."

"You don't have to," Ronan said carefully. "I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

"I have nowhere else to go, dear one. I am barred from Feihjelm until the one who bound me here releases me or is killed—even if I had the power to return, which I do not, I would not be able to find a way in."

"I..." Ronan shook his head, unable to fully comprehend the gravity of what the god was saying. "I'm sorry."

"I am sure you are, and I appreciate it." Shivaroth adjusted the sleeve of his coat. "But that does not change my situation."

They stared at each other for a moment before Ronan dropped his eyes and turned back to the map. He bit his lip, tracing their route once more with the tip of his finger. There were footsteps behind him, and he was vaguely aware of Acaeus' presence; he glanced at the map, then spoke softly.

"That dream you had—what was it about?"

"Nothing," Ronan murmured. "It was just darkness. There was nothing but darkness." He shuddered at the memory, and while Acaeus didn't respond, he also didn't pull away.

Acaeus was steady by his side, and he leaned over a bit so their shoulders touched, giving Ronan something to keep his feet beneath him. Anything more, and it would have been overwhelming to both of them—so they stood, occasionally commenting on pathways and potential safe havens. Shivaroth stood and gazed out the window; Ronan couldn't begin to guess at what he was thinking. Wynne stood across from them, her hands busy as she unstrung her bow and studied the wooden frame.

It was Acaeus that finally spoke the question that was in all of their minds.

"When do we leave?"

To everyone's surprise, it was Shivaroth that answered.

"Now, I would imagine." His voice was grim, and he stepped away from the window and glanced at Ronan. "Take a look." Pushing away from the table, Ronan walked across the room, eyes immediately locking on what Shivaroth had seen.

In the distance, a trail of horses was visible, dark against the snow. The sun had not yet risen but they were still moving steadily closer, and while he couldn't see who led them, he was almost certain it was Aevar, along with the same forces they'd held off at Solthorne.

"They didn't wait long to catch up," he said bleakly.

"Then we won't wait long to get out of here," Wynne countered. "Let's go. Pack everything you can carry."

Ronan and Acaeus exchanged glances. Shivaroth stood by the wall, taut as a bowstring. Straightening his shoulders, Ronan took his place as the Circle's commander.

"Wynne, seal off the front doors, then take up a post by the back exit. Sound your hunting horn if anyone gets within thirty feet of our position. Acaeus, I need you to gather our things and grab anything that can be used as a weapon. Shivaroth—"

Ronan faltered.

"Stay with me. We'll meet by the horses in ten minutes. If the sun has set and someone's not there—anyone, that includes me—we wait five more minutes before we leave. We all meet at Illirium if something goes wrong. Got it?" There were nods from around the room, and Ronan gave them a hesitant smile.

"Good luck. I'll see you both soon."

Wynne and Acaeus exited first, while he and Shivaroth hung back. A sense of purpose came over him the second they were alone, and Shivaroth glanced at him as if he'd sensed it.

"Come with me," Ronan said grimly.

"Where are we going?" Shivaroth fell into step behind him, and Ronan turned down unfamiliar hallways, a tremor in his hands.

"Back to that...that chamber."

Shivaroth stopped dead in his tracks. "What chamber?"

"A ritual chamber. I saw its door in the dream I had before you showed up. It—it was identical, down to the carvings." He had conveniently left that part out when Acaeus had asked. "On the off-chance that there's anything that can explain what happened, I have to see it."

Shivaroth shook his head, teeth gritted. He started walking when Ronan continued, but spoke warily. "And was there a reason you did not mention this to your Circle?"

"It has a blood seal," Ronan said, eyes scanning the hall for the door he'd seen in the darkness. "They'd likely not be overjoyed at the prospect of their prince engaging in blood rituals."

"And you think I am?" Shivaroth moved forward and grabbed his forearm, spinning him around to face him. "What exactly is it that you are planning to do?"

Ronan bit his lip. "Blood seals only require a bit of blood to open, or so I've heard. Do you have a blade on you?"

"A dagger," Shivaroth said slowly. "It was with me when I arrived."

"Then I'll use that. It will be quick. For an Asir it would be agonizing, but I don't have any magic for it to pull from me."

"It is still dangerous."

"But you'll be with me. I trust that you'll stop me if something starts to go wrong."

Shivaroth studied him, then released his arm. "Do not ask me to aid you with anything like this in the future," he murmured reluctantly. "I do not want to be the one allowing you to put yourself in danger."

"If it wasn't so important, I wouldn't even be considering it."

They fell silent. The halls were bleak. The Reach had been looted down to its bones—there were light patches on the walls where tapestries had once hung, and breaks in the dust covering the floor where they could faintly see the imprint of something a raider had found valuable enough to take. Ronan briefly entertained the thought of how grand the Reach must have been when its caretakers were still around to tend to it. The mountains, while dangerous, held many of the gems of Adacia, and from what he'd read, this had once been one.

"I think this is it," Shivaroth said softly, grabbing Ronan's wrist before he could walk past it. "This is the only door that has any carvings." They both turned, small in the face of the towering doors.

Ronan moved forward, and Shivaroth provided his dagger before he even opened his mouth to ask. He took it firmly in his hand, exhaled slowly, and dragged the blade across his left palm; blood sprang to the surface of the cut and he felt the door react immediately, pushing the breath from his lungs. He held up his hand, placing it palm-down against the center where the doors met, and watched in awe as they swung open before him.

Shivaroth took the dagger, barely larger than a butter knife, and tucked it back into his belt. They studied the room before them as Ronan lowered his hand, shaking with the power it had sparked, and wiped the blood on his cloak. Shivaroth caught it as more blood ran down his fingers, tearing off a strip of his tunic as Ronan was so used to doing and tying it around his hand. Ronan nodded his thanks and stepped in first, hesitant, with Shivaroth standing behind him, ready to drag him back out if either of them noticed anything strange.

Scanning the room, he stepped forward, sifting through a stack of ruined papers that had been discarded on the floor long ago, their words faded and smudged. Patches of long-dried blood were gathered in the center, but Ronan ignored them, turning instead to the bookshelves that had been carved into the walls.

"Check the other side, will you?" Shivaroth nodded and left his side, the absence of the taller man sending a chill down his spine.

"What is it we are looking for?"

"I'm not sure," Ronan confessed. "Anything that seems like it could be helpful." He squinted against the darkness. "If we could see, that might be a good first step," he grumbled. He ran his thumb over the pages of another book, this one, too, faded and ruined by the passage of time.

There was a pause, then a flickering glow stuttered to life behind him. Turning in surprise, Ronan saw Shivaroth's face illuminated by a warm ball of light hovering an inch or so over his hand. It cast a dim glow on the shelves around them, but only spanned a few feet—the farthest corners of the room were still steeped in shadow.

The god gave him a strained smile.

"This should help."

They continued their rounds, scanning each book. Ronan found none that had held up, and Shivaroth found something written in the curling characters of the Old Adacian language, but they concluded that it was nothing more than a record book.

It was then, when Ronan was beginning to worry that they would end up being left behind with nothing to show for it, that Shivaroth dragged his attention to something much, much more than a book.

"Ronan." There was a hint of reverence in Shivaroth's voice, behind a swell of apprehension. The prince turned, eyes widening as they caught the thing Shivaroth was illuminating.

On the wall, an eye was painted. Red, open, with a slit through its middle and intelligence in its gaze. Ronan's hand went up to touch Aevar's brand on his throat. Identical. Ever-present.

Words were written in a circle around it, in a language that he recognized as the sacred script of the gods. Shivaroth began to translate, his voice hushed as if he was afraid he would awaken a monster.

"We pledge ourselves now and ever after to the god Aevar. We swear to kill all false kings, strike the names of false gods from our books, and bring all those who oppose us to their knees. He has brought us power, and He will bring our salvation." Shivaroth muttered the last line not in Adacian, but in the lilting words used in Feihjelm. " _Mahk-ti. Ajharel. Fahn-ha lente vol Avok'Shai_." Ronan gave him a quizzical look, and Shivaroth shook his head slowly.

"Stand tall, prepare. Bring down the man called the _Avok'Shai—_ the godslayer. It is seven hundred years old, Ronan, dated here." He pointed to a series of numbers beneath it all. "And yet here, two names are listed. Vehkra, the name of the one that killed me in an attempt to kill Aevar, and yours."

Ronan exhaled slowly. "Mine?"

"Ronan Elria Aldrea," Shivaroth read. He turned toward him, an indecipherable look in his eyes.

His name was listed under the mantle of the godslayer. Shivaroth didn't continue—they both knew what it meant. They knew what that mantle brought.

"I'm..." Ronan trailed off. A hunting horn sounded from the back entrance, Wynne's promised alarm, and the two exchanged a panicked glance.

"We're out of time," he hissed. "We'll figure this out later." Shivaroth nodded in agreement, jaw tense. They turned from the painted eye—red, a deep, rusted red, the consistency unmistakably that of dried blood—and rushed out the door.

The hallways seemed much more cramped this time through. The Reach was large, twisted, and full of a dark energy that Ronan wished he could escape.

"Ronan," Shivaroth called from behind him. "What are you planning to do to escape the prophecy, exactly? What do you intend?"

The word rang in his head. _Avok'Shai_.He couldn't claim that he'd never considered taking that path, it was the one clear idea he'd had, though it went against every aspect of his being. He would not be the harbinger of the end that would surely come with that course of action.

"I'm not sure," he said finally, "but I don't intend to take up that mantle now, and never have." Glancing behind him as they walked, he saw Shivaroth relax slightly.

"Do tell me if that changes," the god murmured. "I would like to have a warning before another sword is driven through my chest." They ducked through a doorway, and Ronan cursed vehemently.

"Look." He pointed toward the window, where Acaeus and Wynne were riding toward the path they'd agreed on earlier. From his position, he could see the advancing forms of the Rhydellans they'd seen earlier, led by Aevar himself. Shivaroth's eyes widened.

"That is him," he confirmed. "You were right."

Ronan looked over at him, a hint of sympathy in his gaze. This was not the way one wanted to reunite with their old companion. Unable to afford the luxury of time, Ronan squared his jaw.

"We need to get out. Wynne and Acaeus will know to meet us in Illirium if they don't disobey me and wait for us somewhere on the road. Aevar will be here soon. We don't have enough power to face him on our own."

"No," Shivaroth agreed. "We don't."

Turning, Ronan surveyed the room they were in. They were close to the entrance, and that was close to the stables. They'd just have to get out unnoticed.

"Stay close," Ronan whispered.

"Of course."

Running down the hallway, Ronan felt a steady chill stemming from the mark on his throat. He ran a hand over it, wincing at the clamminess of his skin. His body still ached from exhaustion, and his hands still shook. If they had to fight, he thought as they slipped through a door into the steadily darkening world outside, he certainly wouldn't be able to win.

He walked close to the wall, ducking behind what vegetation he could, making sure the coast was clear before motioning for Shivaroth to follow him as he bolted for the stable.

Wynne and Acaeus had left them a horse. It was the one he had ridden there, and it looked nearly as tired as he was. He patted its neck before climbing up onto its back, grateful to see his trident still attached to the saddlebag. Shivaroth glanced over his shoulder before pulling himself up behind Ronan.

"Ready?"

"Yes," Shivaroth said grimly.

Ronan snapped the reins, urging the horse forward. There were shouts near the Reach's front entrance, announcing that they believed Ronan and his party had indeed taken shelter there, and though they were not visible behind the keep's central tower, the proximity was too close for comfort. He bit his lip, leaning forward against the wind. The night would give them cover, at least, and if they were able to catch up with Wynne and Acaeus before they reached Illirium, they could even have a fighting chance.

The snow flew up around the horse's feet as it ran, and Ronan shivered against the cold, suddenly envious of Shivaroth's heavy coat. His cloak wasn't with him, and he muttered a curse under his breath as his teeth started chattering.

"We're going to need to stop somewhere," he said through gritted teeth. "Somewhere warm. Aevar will be the least of our problems if it stays this cold." Shivaroth shot him a concerned glance.

"Are you—"

"I'm fine," Ronan said evenly. "I'll be fine."

They pulled onto the forested path that would lead to Seven's Pass, following in the wake of the two trails made by Wynne and Acaeus' mounts. He fervently hoped that Aevar and his men would search the Reach thoroughly before noticing that they'd escaped, but he was dreading the possibility that they were already on their way.

The trees were heavy with snow and ice, and Ronan shuddered at the ominous creaking of the wood as they rode through the grove. With the wind picking back up, the night was shaping up to be more dangerous than the battle they had narrowly avoided. All he could hope was that the weather would give them the protection they needed from Aevar's uncanny ability to track them down.

"The snow should cover our tracks soon," he breathed. "If it keeps coming down like this, they'll have no idea where we went."

"Remember that you are not up against a mortal," Shivaroth cautioned. "Aevar does not need to see your trail. He can find other ways to track you."

A grim look worked its way into Ronan's eyes. "We'll be okay," he insisted. "Aevar won't spoil his hunt with cheap tricks."

Shivaroth grimaced. "You may be right."

They rode in silence after that for no less than an hour, with Ronan growing increasingly cold and paranoid. The snow came down harder around them, and no matter how fast he drove his horse, he could see Wynne and Acaeus' trail start to fade in front of him—if they had any luck, their trail was soon to follow. Aevar would likely search the Reach for another hour or so, and he prayed the storm would be enough to keep him off of their scent at least until they were able to set out again in the morning. As his vision began to blur from exhaustion and his hope started to fade, the tracks, now barely visible, veered wildly off to the side. He exchanged a glance with Shivaroth, and turned to follow.

The trail led them down a heavily wooded path, strewn with crushed vegetation and trampled snow. It was shaded, darkened further by the trees that blocked out the dim light of the moon through the storm, and Ronan had to squint ahead to be able to see even three feet in front of him. Distant voices made him jump, and one of his hands, stiff and reddened from the cold, came to rest by his trident. The closer they got, though, the more familiar the voices became, and the more he relaxed. When they finally emerged into the clearing at the end of the trail, he could have collapsed in relief—Acaeus was crouched over a pile of wood, brow furrowed in concentration as he summoned a flame in his hand to light a fire, and Wynne was sitting across from him, head in her hands. He reigned in his horse and slid to the ground as Acaeus got the fire to flare to life, following that spell quickly with another, one that wiped the smoke from the air as quickly as the fire could produce it. Wynne's head snapped up at the sound of Ronan's feet in the snow.

"Ronan, thank the gods—" She stood, crossing the clearing and clasping his shoulders. Her eyes held a residual trace of worry. "I'm sorry we left."

"Don't be," he managed. "I gave you an order, and you carried it through."

Acaeus stood from his place by the fire, giving Ronan a relieved grin. "Glad to see you in one piece," he said.

Ronan returned his smile, albeit a bit listlessly. "Same to you." He glanced over his shoulder at Shivaroth, who was standing silently by his shoulder.

"You can join us," he offered, gesturing to the fire. "We wouldn't mind."

The god stared at him for a moment, then shook his head.

"No, thank you. I need to..." he trailed off. "I need to think."

Ronan nodded in understanding, giving Shivaroth a tentative smile before tying the reigns of his horse next to Wynne's and trudging over to the fire. He sat down next to Acaeus, who lifted a side of his cloak and put it around Ronan's shoulders. He pressed himself against the knight's side, intensely grateful for the warmth radiating from him.

"We move out at first light," Wynne said, stoking the fire. "I have no doubt that they're hot on our trail."

"We can get to Illirium tomorrow if we ride fast enough." Acaeus' voice was rough. "Though we won't have much time there if they find us as quickly as they have been." The three sat silently, staring into the fire and contemplating the heavy reality of their situation.

Ronan let his eyes slide shut. Acaeus was a steady force beside him, and Wynne the same across from him. He let himself forget Shivaroth's predicament for the time being, along with Aevar and the threats coming at them from all angles.

He felt himself begin to fall asleep, and he didn't fight the urge. His awareness slowly faded out, and for the first night in a very long time, he didn't dream. 


	5. V. The Immortal City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you know what they say: a change of scenery can do wonders for the soul.

By the time they reached the towering peak that housed Illirium, the sun, mostly hidden, was directly overhead. The storm had calmed when they left the mountains but snow still fell, and clouds had swiftly devoured any hint of the sky behind them.

Adacian winters were always like this. Dreary, gray, and dangerous. They leeched the color from the forests, cast an ever-present veil of darkness over the land, and blanketed the towns in a snow so treacherous that it was common practice to travel across the sea to Esadon to escape it. 

Then spring would roll around, the snow would melt, and the rains would start. It was a vicious cycle, but Ronan had never known anything else.

Their ragtag group had fallen in with a caravan, keeping their hoods up and their heads down as they rode behind the carts and pack mules. Shivaroth had tied a scarf over his nose, hoping to hide the startling blue of his skin that would easily have him branded as something other than human, and Ronan, riding with Acaeus, did his best to keep his face hidden behind the knight's shoulder, knowing that even with his dirt-streaked cheeks and tangled hair, he was clearly recognizable as the crown prince.

It had been nearly a year since he had been forced to flee the palace, effectively abandoning his people. Over half a year since he had stepped foot out of the mountains outside of supply runs. He knew the people of Adacia needed leadership, that they were looking for answers. They had a dead king and no way of knowing if their prince had fallen beside him. As bleak as that was, Ronan knew that staying hidden—and therefore alive—was the only way he would be able to liberate his people. He could do no good for them if his corpse was forgotten beneath the frozen ground.

Part of him wondered if anyone even thought of him as their prince anymore. He shook his head to dismiss it. He didn't need a title; he would stave off the war with or without the support of a court. All he needed was to shake the prophecy from his shoulders, and then he could focus on the war.

"I'd forgotten how large Illirium is." Acaeus murmured to him, his leather-clad hands fiddling with the reins held between them.

Ronan nodded his agreement—the gates alone towered high above them, easily fifty feet tall, carved from obsidian and adorned with silver. He knew that the city inside was just as grand, and just as dark.

From what he remembered, the buildings were carved from the sides of the mountain, from stone spires that rose from the ground, from anything that could be reached—and once they'd run out of room, from everything else. As they passed through the gate, Ronan looked up to watch it pass. Illirium would be one of the safest cities on the island if it weren't next to impossible to escape it on short notice.

The natural light faded to be replaced with torches that glowed with a steady blue—magefire, Ronan recognized. He'd seen Acaeus make it many times. Ignoring the voices of those in the caravan ahead, Ronan focused on the tunnel they rode through. It was narrow; despite being the main entrance to the city, it was hardly wide enough to fit a wagon through, though it stretched up into a cavernous ceiling. Their three horses were unable to walk side by side, so Wynne brought up the rear while Shivaroth rode next to Acaeus and Ronan's shared mount.

As the tunnel opened up to show the city, Shivaroth's eyes widened in awe beside him.

Illirium stretched out before them, at least five miles wide at the mountain's base. From where they stood, they could see the towering buildings lit up blue by the magelight, spanned by bridges and staircases that created a web-like pattern when he looked up. No space in the mountain had been left untouched—even the peak was accessible, and housed the high office of the current ruling lord. An underground river cut through beneath it all, carving a clear path through the buildings.

"Incredible," Shivaroth whispered. "This—this is incredible."

Ronan couldn't help but agree. Despite the uneasiness that always clouded his mind whenever he was underground, there was a quality to Illirium that struck him in a way he couldn't quite describe. While they moved forward with the caravan, Ronan tore his gaze from the architecture and started scanning the people, making sure none of the crimson-armored Rhydellan troops had made it there before them.

There were beggars by the entrance, clad in torn clothes and worn boots, people moving about with their heads down between shops, taverns, and homes, and those that wore the blue-gray crest of Adacia on their breast—but nothing red. There was nothing here that belonged to the enemy.

He felt his shoulders relax. They dismounted their horses by a small stable, and Wynne tossed the stable boy a few gold coins, giving him a grateful nod as he led their horses away.

"We'll pick them up when we leave," Wynne said, falling into step beside Ronan. "They deserve a bit of a break before we're put on the run again." Ronan nodded, eyes scanning the signs posted in front of stores as they passed. Some were wanted posters that advertised a bounty, most detailing bandits and outlaws, while others were calls to fight back against the Rhydellan forces and retake Adacia Proper.

"Turn left here," Acaeus said, nodding to a narrow side-street. Ronan obeyed, following close behind him as they stopped in front of an armory.

"Let me do the talking, alright? Stay close, and gods, he'd better hold his end of the deal—" Acaeus' muttering trailed off as he opened the door, stepping through it into a warmly lit room strewn with swords, armor, and various items that Ronan couldn't name. A man stood at the counter, old and grizzled, with a deep scar over his right eye. His mouth dropped open when he saw Acaeus.

"Acaeus Lesterium? That you? By the gods, boy, I thought you were dead."

"Good to see you still remember me, Taryn." There was a rare hint of warmth in Acaeus' voice, and he reached across the counter to clasp the man's hand. "How has land been treating you?"

"Well, it's nothing like the old days. I miss the deck of a ship beneath my feet. You were how old, then? You couldn't have been more than—"

"Fifteen," Acaeus finished. Taryn laughed, a deep, booming sound.

"You were a fine pirate even at fifteen. I tip my hat to you, son, though it seems you've left the seas and settled with a new crowd." He nodded to Ronan and the rest of their party. Wynne raised an eyebrow.

"I thought you said you knew him from the fleet," she said slowly.

"I never said what fleet, did I? The Rhydellans only had my allegiance when I was too young to know any better." Acaeus waved off the rest of the questions no doubt ready to spring from Wynne's lips and Ronan smiled, remembering the stories Acaeus had told him about how he'd fled the Ravenpledged threat in Kadena by stowing away on a pirate vessel. He'd sworn Ronan to secrecy immediately after, however, as they had both been young and any blow to Acaeus' already fragile political standing in Adacia could have had him thrown out of the Circle. Of course, Ronan had found the stories irresistible. He remembered the day Acaeus had arrived, wearing a stolen red coat that swept the ground as he walked and a thin rapier that he'd tied haphazardly to his belt. His white hair had been ragged and rough with salt from the sea air—he'd told the king when he entered the tournament that would eventually decide the members of Ronan's Circle that he'd come from the Rhydellan emissary's vessel docked in the harbor. No one had been there to dispute his claim.

"I'm guessing there's a reason you're here," Taryn said with a pointed glance at Shivaroth, and then at Ronan.

"There is," Acaeus murmured apologetically. "We're in need of a bit of help."

"I can see that. You're covered in an alarming amount of blood and you've got a god standing behind you." Taryn's wariness was understandable. The last time the gods had walked Ishtel, Shivaroth had been killed and Aevar had brought Adacia to its peak of strife.

"I—yes. That's—"

"I am Shivaroth." Apparently not content to have another introduce him, Shivaroth pulled the scarf from his face, and met Taryn's brown eyes with his own solid black. The old man shuddered.

"I can see that. God of dreams, right? It's been some time since I studied the Seven."

"Patron of minstrels and guardian of the lost," Shivaroth added. "But yes, you have it right."

Taryn turned to Acaeus, groaning. "The Adacian Seven are a prideful bunch, aren't they? Damn, don't you ever miss home? Rhydel's capital was beautiful. Val Erso had some wonderful temples to the Three. Maybe I should think about going back to see some of them, huh? If the Seven are deciding to make a reappearance."

"I did not mean to cause any offense," Shivaroth said, rushing to right the perceived wrong. "I was only—"

"I don't have anything against you in particular, Dreamweaver, just your kind. I don't trust anyone other than my own damn self to make my fate and set my path. You'll have to forgive me for finding your pantheon a bit intrusive." Taryn focused back on Acaeus before Shivaroth had a chance to respond.

"What do you need, kid?"

"Weapons. Armor. Any provisions and help you could spare." Acaeus met Taryn's eyes. "You owe me, remember?"

"Yeah, yeah. You don't have to pull that shit here, play that card when you really need it. I'll cover you, for old times' sake."

Acaeus breathed out shakily. "Thank you," he said, voice layered with gratitude. "Truly."

It was only then, when Taryn turned to rummage through the back rooms for supplies and Acaeus dropped his head into his hands, it occured to Ronan that Acaeus really _was_ scared. Not just slightly, as he had admitted calmly at the Reach—his voice carried a deep, soul-crushing fear that laced through the heart and did its best to paralyze. Whether he was frightened for himself, for Ronan, or for Adacia, he couldn't say, but the revelation itself was enough to send him reeling.

They were in real danger, he never once doubted that, but for all the years he and Acaeus had traveled together, Ronan had never once seen him so desperate, so beaten down. They had been injured, lost, and on the brink of death more times than they could count, but Acaeus had hardly faltered. Now, though, they were going up against a god. He supposed that alone was reason enough to be afraid.

Taryn re-emerged from the back room carrying a small record book. "Looks like you've still got that old greatsword. Family heirloom, was it?" Acaeus reached back and brushed his fingers over Stormbreaker's hilt.

"Yes."

"I always thought you fought better with a light blade and your fists myself. Your parents, those noble bastards, taught you how to fight all stiff and honorable. You were always smoother fighting dirty. I could give you something smaller, a rapier—"

"I'll be alright. Those three are the ones that need weaponry." Acaeus pointed over his shoulder to Ronan, Wynne, and Shivaroth. Taryn scanned them with the critical eye of someone who knew precisely what to look for.

"You," he said, focusing on Ronan. "You're too small to be able to wield a larger weapon without some awkwardness, but you've got enough muscle to move quick. I'm guessing you favor something that lets you play to those strengths." Ronan nodded.

"I fight with a trident, but I've already got—"

"Don't worry about what you've already got. I'll get you something better." He turned to Shivaroth.

"And you?"

"I don't need armor." Shivaroth walked to the counter, bare feet making no sound as he moved. "It will slow me down. I need a—"

"A scimitar. Am I remembering your legends correctly?" Taryn looked thoughtful, sizing Shivaroth up as he nodded.

"You are."

The archipelago Adacia sat in the center of was most commonly known as The Crescent, though it had picked up its fair share of nicknames along the way, Shivaroth's Scimitar among them. Ronan remembered seeing the namesake in Serenvah. It was a grand item, fashioned of gold and patterned steel, its hilt wound with purple and red strips of fabric.

"You don't want shoes?"

Shivaroth stared at him blankly. "Why would I need shoes?"

Taryn gave him a look, then shook his head, deciding not to go up against the strange mindset of the gods.

"What about you, archer?" Wynne, who had been scanning the walls of weapons with an experienced eye, spoke without hesitation.

"I'm fine with the armor I have," she said, gesturing to the standard plate one could find in just about any armory around the country, "but I need something for close combat. A shortsword, or a dagger. I'll let you make the final call." Taryn surveyed them all for a moment, then nodded.

"I'll be back."

Taryn turned, opening a door behind the counter and disappearing behind it. Ronan wandered over the window, looking out at the stone columns and scanning faces for any hint of red hair and blue warpaint. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised to see Aevar. He spared a glance at Shivaroth, and wondered whether or not he would want to see his former companion at all—it was a cruel turn of events that he had ended up on Ishtel now, when everywhere he turned, he was faced with a reminder of Aevar's cruelty.

Shivaroth noticed his staring and came to stand beside him by the window, speaking softly. "This city, I...I have never been here. It is beautiful."

"It is," Ronan agreed.

"I have missed Ishtel," the god confessed. "Not the violence or the fear, but the places. The people. The feeling of my feet in the snow. Your world is dynamic, it changes with each ruler and shifts with the tides, but Feihjelm..." he sighed. "I should not complain. I live there without fear of death. I suppose it can only come off as dull to one who has lived there for so long without venturing forth."

Ronan thought back to the palace he was raised in—it was extravagant and beautiful, it held all he could ever think to ask for, and it kept him out of the slums. He recognized his position and his place in society, but despite the guilt that always surrounded these thoughts, when he'd lived there he had wanted nothing more than to escape.

"No," Ronan murmured. "I understand. We have lived much more sheltered lives than most. I was born in a castle built on the backs of others, you in a place where immortality is shared by all and power is the norm. Yet there—there is always at least a moment when all you can wish is to leave. To experience anything but those same walls, or another day of monotony."

"There is a want for adventure," Shivaroth agreed.

"I wanted adventure desperately when I was younger. Nothing frightened me more than the thought of routine; I wanted to run off, to be anyone else as long as I was free of my duties, of my life. But now—gods. Now there is nothing I want more than peace." He glanced over to where Wynne and Acaeus were talking, and smiled sadly.

"I mean, I told you about all of my escape attempts when we met in my dreams. Do you remember that night after the tournament, when I tried to run away? If Acaeus hadn't convinced me to stay, I would have been long gone by morning."

Shivaroth's lips twitched in amusement. "You roped him into it, too, didn't you? You would stay if he would. You were both trying to leave the city."

"I wonder what would have happened if we'd both left then. If we would have—if Aevar would have gotten—"

"There is no need to wonder at where a path could have led you." Shivaroth put a hand on his forearm, drawing his gaze away from the window. "There are an infinite number of paths you could have walked, Ronan, but all of them would have led you back here, to all of us. One way or another, this was to be your fate all along. These people—and now me—walk the path beside you. That is the way it was intended."

Ronan stared at him as Shivaroth drew back his hand.

"I don't know whether I was supposed to find that comforting or alarming."

"That is often the case with fate," Shivaroth murmured.

The god turned away, then, wandering back toward the counter and running a finger against the flat of a blade on display. Ronan was left to simply watch him, a thousand questions sharp on his tongue and an odd feeling in his chest. Before he could speak, however, Taryn returned from the back room with his arms piled with weapons and armor.

The transition was unceremonious. He passed the first item to Wynne—it was a simple short sword sheathed in black leather. Strips of green fabric had been tied around the grip, and Wynne tested the balance in her hands, nodding after a moment.

"This is perfect," she said. "Thank you." Taryn nodded, then turned to Shivaroth. He passed a scimitar over the counter. The blade was simple, but the hilt was made of an ornate gold, curved like vines around the grip. Shivaroth smiled as he saw it.

"Might not be fit for a god, but it's what I've got."

"No," Shivaroth reassured him. "No, this is beautiful. You have my gratitude."

Taryn eyed him, still suspicious. "You're welcome," he said slowly.

The next weapon was held out to Ronan. The moment it was in his hands, he grinned at the familiar weight. The trident he held was unlike the light, nearly weightless one he'd stolen from the Rhydellan. This one boasted a perfect balance, and its three-pronged silver head was carved with runes and Old Adacian script.

"Bought this off an old sailor. No idea who had it before him, but this thing is old and strong. When wielded by someone with skill, it was like nothing I'd seen. Use it well." Taryn gave him a knowing look. "After all, it's fit for a king." Ronan's lips parted in awe at the old pirate's recognition, but he didn't have time to respond as a set of light leather armor was shoved over the counter into his arms. He nearly dropped the trident in surprise but managed to hook his elbow around it before it hit the ground.

"That'll let you maintain your speed. Acaeus, you get the same." Acaeus, who had been leaning against the wall until now, stood up straight with raised eyebrows.

"Taryn, you know I don't do that kind of fighting anymore."

"Oh, gods, just try it. If you don't like it you'll be able to loot something else off a body within the week, I'm sure." He pulled something up from behind the counter, and put it down on top of the armor.

The weapon Taryn had presented was a thin rapier, with a blue stone set in the hilt and a simple silver guard. The blade was made of the same blue material as Stormbreaker _,_ and Acaeus' eyes widened.

"You kept that? Gods, how did you even find it?"

"Someone stole it from you after the tournament, remember?" There was a sharp look in Taryn's eyes. "I could see that you weren't coming back, boy."

Acaeus scoffed, but Ronan could see an impressed smirk beginning to form on his face. "You stole my sword?"

"And you let us think you were dead for years on end." Taryn fixed him with a crooked grin. "We're even."

Wynne shook her head in amusement. "You know, I've met my fair share of pirates," she whispered to Ronan, "but I don't think I've ever gotten used to their code." Ronan chuckled.

Taryn looked them over, nodding in satisfaction.

"Is this enough to get you out of here?" He asked Acaeus. "Don't need you four drawing any attention my way, no matter how good it is to see you. It's hard enough to live as a Rhydellan in this city without raising suspicion as it is."

"More than enough," Acaeus said. "Thank you, Taryn." He hesitantly took the rapier in his hands, then put it back as he picked up the armor and put it on, wincing as the wound on his back was inevitably agitated. Ronan followed suit, tightening the clasps on the black leather and slinging the trident over his shoulder. He pulled the gauntlets on last, and by the time he looked up, Acaeus was standing in matching armor, his set adorned with blue-dyed accents. The rapier was secured around his waist. Ronan smiled.

When he turned, he saw that Wynne's shortsword hung at her belt and her hair had been pulled up into a bun. She looked like she had back when she was with the royal guard—composed, stoic, and stronger than anyone Ronan had ever known.

Before Taryn could go back to his work, Acaeus spoke.

"One last thing."

"What is it, kid?"

"Is Arterus—"

"You want to see Arterus?"

Acaeus bit his lip. "He wouldn't be my first choice any other day, but he's got food and shelter, and both of those things are sounding particularly appealing right about now."

"Your funeral," Taryn muttered. "Don't blame me if he greets you with a blade to your throat. He's down the street, past the tavern. The inn is called _The Dove and Raven_."

"Thank you," Acaeus said with a tense smile. "We'll get out of your way." He paused, a few more words spilling from his lips unbidden. "Taryn, I—you might want to get out of here. Disaster seems to follow us these days."

Taryn patted him on the shoulder from the other side of the counter, gripping it with a nod. "I appreciate the warning, kid, but we both know I'm harder to kill than that."

"I know." Acaeus exhaled. "I—yeah. You're right. I know."

Acaeus ushered Ronan out the door, followed by Wynne and Shivaroth. As Acaeus shut the door, Taryn yelled, "you'd better stop by again, boy!" Acaeus snorted.

"Will do, old man." The door closed. The weight of the trident at Ronan's back put his heart at ease even when they stood within a bustling crowd of people.

It was overwhelming. He hadn't been to a city this big since he left Adacia Proper.

Acaeus started walking, leading their way through the crowd. His eyes were dark, cast toward the ground. Wynne pushed her way up to stand beside him.

"So, who is this Arterus?" She rested her hand on the hilt of her sword, and looped her other thumb through her belt. "If we're walking into a fight—"

"He's too much of a damn coward to draw his weapon on anyone. He'll threaten to, sure, but when it comes down to it, he knows when he's beat."

Wynne gave him a searching look.

"And why exactly are these two in your debt?"

Acaeus flushed at the question, ducking through a group of chatting nobles with a brisk, "pardon."

"I saved Taryn's life," Acaeus said over his shoulder, "and spared Arterus'." Wynne raised an eyebrow.

"I'm guessing you won't be explaining further."

"Not today."

Ronan shrugged when Wynne glanced back at him. Acaeus had never mentioned this. He'd been rather selective about the memories he'd chosen to share over the five years they'd known one another, and Ronan had learned not to pry. The knight had become a master of evasion—Ronan could ask a question about his past, and they'd end up talking about the weather.

"There," Shivaroth said, raising a hand to point at a sign ahead: _The Dove and Raven_. He pulled his sleeve down over his fingers. His scimitar had been hidden skillfully beneath his coat, and he held his right arm across his torso in case he needed to draw it. His preparations were ominous, telling. He evidently wasn't feeling the wave of relief that came with being among a crowd of allies.

Acaeus hesitated outside the door, took a deep breath, then pushed through. The lobby of the inn was connected to the tavern the next door over, and music carried between them. Acaeus glanced around for a moment before his eyes settled on a young man with shoulder-length blond hair. The man—Arterus, Ronan assumed—staggered back a few steps.

"You," he said, shock coloring his words. "You need to leave."

Acaeus moved his hands away from his blades in a placating gesture. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"You shouldn't be here at all," Arterus protested, his voice kicking up an octave.

"It wasn't my fault we got into that mess in the first place, was it?" Acaeus narrowed his eyes and Ronan looked away, acutely aware that these were not words meant for his ears.

"It was still you holding the blade, Acaeus."

"I didn't strike." Acaeus stepped forward. "They forced my hand, yet I didn't strike. Don't trust me, fine, do what you must, but at least recognize that I was not acting of my own volition."

Arterus cursed, and Ronan was grateful their argument was being masked by the sounds from the tavern. When Ronan looked up, he saw the blond slide a knife into his waistband before he leapt the counter he stood behind and beckoned them into a storeroom.

"Try anything," Arterus warned, catching Acaeus' eyes and bringing a hand down to the knife, "and I'll use it." Ronan glanced back at the tavern, catching the eyes of the bartender across the room. He made a split-second decision and pulled Wynne aside.

"I'm going to ask around about the state of everything," he whispered. "Meet me back in the tavern." Wynne nodded, propping the door to the storeroom open with her toe.

"Be careful." She gave him a look. "And be discreet."

Ronan snorted. "I always am," he said with a grin. "Keep an eye on them for me, will you?"

"Of course." They parted ways easily, with Wynne ducking back into the storeroom and Ronan putting his hood down and wandering into the tavern.

A group of men sang sea shanties over someone else's drunken fiddle playing, patrons lined the bar, and others still danced on tables. Ronan's lips twitched. Illirium was much livelier than Adacia Proper had been. He supposed that was to be expected when the patrons of the royal city's taverns were nobles and those that were after power—they all had to be on their best behavior. Taverns in the capital, Acaeus had once said, were not taverns at all.

He sat down at the counter, raising his hand and slipping a few silver coins from his pocket onto the bar. Names and symbols had been carved into the wood where he sat, and he ran his fingers over the crude etchings. The bartender walked over, resting her elbows against the surface.

"What can I get you?"

"Esadonian ale," he said evenly. The woman grabbed something off the shelf, filled a cup and sliding it across the counter. He nodded his thanks.

"Anything else?"

"Yes, actually." Ronan considered his words carefully, doing his best to consider all of his moves, knowing that backing himself into a corner could easily put him in a dangerous situation. "What is the state of Adacia Proper?" The bartender cocked an eyebrow, raising her voice over a swell in the music.

"What, have you been living under a rock?"

"I've been hunting up in the mountains. My party got caught in a blizzard, we've been gone longer than we meant to be."

The bartender gave him a look that told him that she didn't entirely believe him, but didn't entirely care. "It's still under Rhydellan control. What's left of our army—those that didn't follow the order to retreat to the mountains until the prince is able to break his curse—is decimating itself trying to get in." She grimaced. "Good thing for us is that both sides think that Adacia Proper's throne is the key to winning the war. If it keeps them from focusing on us and the ports, I say let them fight for it."

"They should be focusing on Ferenheld," a man beside him chimed in. His eyes, Ronan noticed, were quite dark.

"What, the Seven's whorehouse?" The bartender scoffed.

"Yes," the man said dryly. "The temple. That is the place where the new king is decided, that is what should matter."

"I don't think they care who the king is." The bartender shrugged. "Honestly, I think we could put a dog on the throne and they wouldn't bat an eye. They don't want to rule us, they just want to beat us down."

"They must have some motive." The man frowned.

Ronan chimed in with a morose smile. "It's been almost a full year. If they _did_ have any motive behind the attacks, it would have come out by now." As he said it, he felt something in mind snap into place. The political unrest, the death of his father, the weak seat of the palace—if Rhydel had been trying to drive him out, to get him to run, get his people to lose faith—

"Or maybe you're right," he whispered, locking eyes with the bartender. "Maybe they want to beat us down. Weaken us for when they hit us with the true attack."

The bartender nodded to his drink, obviously bored. "You going to drink that?"

He looked down at the cup in a daze, all thoughts of productive questions banished from his mind. He took the drink in his hands and knocked it back. The bartender grinned.

"That's more like it." She refilled the thing, and waved away his coin. "Get your mind off of politics, hunter. We've got enough trouble here as it is." Ronan's head was beginning to swim, but it wasn't from the alcohol. He didn't touch the refilled cup.

"What kind of trouble?"

"The Queen's Fleet landed at Llyran," the bartender muttered. "She's offloading troops to help with the war effort. It's getting us too much attention."

Ronan's head snapped up. "Queen Tentras' fleet? Is she with them?"

"That's what the rumors are saying." The bartender was clear in her distaste. "It's nice of Esadon to help, but by the gods, they could be doing it in a way that didn't pull all eyes toward one of the last free cities on the island." Ronan gazed into his glass, nodding slowly.

"I see."

Another customer waved the bartender over, and she ducked out of the conversation with a wave to Ronan. He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. The man that had chimed in earlier glanced over at him.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yeah," Ronan breathed. "Just tired."

The man nodded solemnly, and raised his drink.

"Here's to brighter days, huh?" Ronan met his dark eyes. They were wizened, sunken. They studied his with an amount of depth that caught him off guard. Ronan inclined his head, and raised his own glass.

"To brighter days."

He knocked back his drink, grimacing as it went down. Esadonian alcohol was known for its bitterness, yet he had come to appreciate it after Zia had brought him a bottle during one of her visits.

When he looked back up, he caught Acaeus' eyes across the tavern. The knight beckoned for him, and Ronan stood, tossing a coin on the counter for a tip and giving the old man a warm smile.

"Go in peace," the man said. Ronan couldn't shake the feeling that he knew more than he let on.

"And you as well," Ronan replied. Weaving his way through the crowd of dancers, he saw Acaeus nod to Arterus. He stumbled slightly as he reached the threshold of the lobby, his toe catching on an uneven floorboard, and Acaeus caught his arm with a grin.

"I always forget that you royal types are lightweights."

"Oh, lay off. The amount you can drink without batting an eye is alarming. Yours are not standards you should be holding others to." Acaeus chuckled.

"Whatever you say." The knight pulled him off to the side, waving at Wynne and Shivaroth as they made their way up the stairs by the front counter. "Arterus agreed to give us two rooms for three days as long as we don't cause trouble."

"Do I want to know how you got out of that stalemate from earlier?" Ronan had seen the way Acaeus worked—he was keen with his words, and able to turn his targets around so many times in conversation that they often forgot their reasons for fighting in the first place. He hoped it was something along those lines and had not turned violent in one way or another, though either way seemed equally probable considering Acaeus' track record.

"I called in my favor, grovelled a bit, made him think he had the upper hand. The usual. The kid isn't my biggest fan, but he prefers reluctant compromises to a fight. Back on the ship that was deemed cowardice; here and now, I think it may just be wise."

Ronan glanced back over at the tavern. Catching the look, Acaeus raised an eyebrow.

"Anything you want to tell me?"

Ronan opened his mouth, then shut it and nodded, pulling Acaeus toward the stairs.

"Yes," he said finally, after they'd walked down a creaky wooden hallway to a room at the end and the door had been securely shut behind them. "Zia is at the port."

Acaeus' eyes widened. "That's good." He grinned, then winced. "Or maybe not. The attention it would draw here—"

"We're going to say it's good," Ronan said, shaking his head. "For the time being. This means no boats to Esadon, no waiting for letters to be delivered, no tracking anyone down. If they're right, and Zia's fleet is in the harbor, we likely have a few days before she leaves. We get there—"

"—we get our final member," Acaeus finished. "Okay. Yeah. That's good." He was trying to convince Ronan as much as himself. He tugged at the leather gauntlet he wore, getting it off and throwing it onto a nearby table.

"What's the catch?"

"There is no catch." Ronan shrugged. "As far as I can tell."

Acaeus curled a lip. "There's always a catch." He tugged off the other gauntlet. He held up a finger to signal Ronan to wait, ducking out the door and waving someone over. Ronan, unconcerned with the content of the conversation, leaned his trident against the nightstand, kicked off his boots, and collapsed back onto the bed. When Acaeus shut the door and turned back, he was staring up at the ceiling as intently as if it were a map.

"What was that about?"

"Bathwater," Acaeus said with a sheepish smile. "I'm covered in my own blood." Turning his head, Ronan saw a wooden tub in the corner and nodded.

"Mm." He shut his eyes, nowhere near sleep but not quite feeling well enough to be awake.

"Gods, are you really that much of a lightweight?" He felt the bed dip where Acaeus sat down beside him. The knight cautiously pushed his hair back from his forehead, fingers soothing and gentle. When he didn't respond, Acaeus sighed. "Not in the mood for my dashing wit right now, huh?"

"I'm sorry," Ronan murmured.

"Don't be. It's an acquired taste." They sat like that for a bit longer, with Acaeus' hand resting in Ronan's hair, until Ronan eventually grew tired of the touch and sat up, prompting Acaeus' hand to fall away.

There was a knock at the door and Acaeus flinched in surprise before casting an apologetic glance at Ronan and standing up to open it, exchanging a few words of thanks with the person on the other side. Ronan scooted back and leaned against the headboard, training his eyes back on the ceiling.

Acaeus shut the door, wincing at the weight of the bucket he carried. Ronan's eyes widened in dismay and he stood, crossing the distance between them and taking the pail of water into his own arms. Acaeus was still injured, no matter how much he may have wanted to pretend he wasn't.

"Don't be reckless," he muttered. He carried the steaming water over to the bath and poured it in. Acaeus opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it, settling on a sigh and a reluctant, "thank you."

Ronan put the bucket on the ground and sat back down on the bed, fingers coming up to weave through his hair. Acaeus unbelted his rapier and stiffly slung Stormbreaker off of his shoulder, setting both blades down to lean against the side of the bed. Ronan caught the reasoning. He'd put his trident where he had for the same purpose. Acaeus put the armor he'd been wearing on a vanity across the room, peeling off his bloodstained shirt after and putting it in a heap by his boots.

Ronan winced as the man set upon undoing his bandages.

"Do you want help?"

"No," Acaeus said through gritted teeth. "I'll be fine." Ronan nodded. There were certainly things he would fight Acaeus on, they were both stubborn in their own right, but there were some battles that he knew he wouldn't win, and weren't worth fighting to begin with.

While Acaeus sank into the bath and hissed at the heat, Ronan began to tug at the straps of his own armor, sighing in relief when it was off. He put it neatly on the floor next to the bed, fully aware of the possibility of having to make a quick escape. No matter how safe Illirium might seem, he knew its defenses wouldn't be anywhere close to enough if Aevar or Rhydel decided to launch an attack.

His thoughts turned to Shivaroth. To the consequences of his being on Ishtel. To his hesitancy to take up the word 'mortal', and all it entailed.

The memory of Shivaroth's predicament faded and paled in comparison to the blood-eye covenant they had found on the wall at the Reach. The words stuck with him, and he knew that the next time they were all in the same place, he'd have to explain to the rest of the Circle what had happened. The idea was not appealing; it only showed the extent of the pantheon's power over them, the true nature of the short-cut leash that was Ronan's fate.

"Ronan?"

He looked over at Acaeus, eyes blank in the telltale way of one that had been lost in thought. "Yes?"

"Could you..." He grimaced. "Could you wash my hair? I can't—" Ronan held up a hand, catching the raw discomfort in Acaeus' voice.

"Of course." Body protesting as he stood, he pulled the chair from the vanity over to the tub, snagging a bar of soap and a glass as he went. Straddling the chair, he balanced the soap on his knee and dipped the cup into the water.

Acaeus leaned his head back while Ronan poured water over his hair, white curls darkening to a light gray under the stream. The knight relaxed under his touch, and Ronan paused briefly to stare at the web of angular scars etched into Acaeus' back, a harsh reminder of the danger of magic's practice.

"How are you holding up?" Acaeus' voice was low, relaxed. Ronan began to rub the soap into his hair.

"I'm doing alright," Ronan said truthfully. "There's something about being in a city again—it puts me at ease." Acaeus chuckled.

"Can't say I feel the same in that regard, but you were always one to enjoy the open markets and crowds."

"Is there somewhere else you'd rather be?"

"Right now?" Acaeus shook his head. "No. Not at all. I'll take any peace I can get." His voice took on a hint of wistfulness. "Though I have missed the sea. It'll be good to go to the ports, even if it's only for a bit."

Putting the bar of soap down on the rim of the tub, he rinsed off his hands and picked the glass back up, filling it again.

"Close your eyes." Acaeus obeyed, and Ronan started to rinse the soap from his hair, watching as the rust red of dried blood mixed in with the water. His mind urged him toward a protective line of questioning— _are you sure you're okay, were you hurt anywhere other than your back, do you need anything_ —he bit his lip to keep the questions back, finally settling on a wavering comment.

"Your hair is getting long again."

Catching the hint of distress in Ronan's words, Acaeus turned, catching his eyes.

"Yes," he murmured, eyeing the prince. "It is." Ronan ducked his head, hoping to keep Acaeus from seeing through him as he so often did. Acaeus took Ronan's hand in his own and turned it over, the one bandaged by cloth from Shivaroth's tunic, and he knew immediately that it hadn't worked.

"I thought you said you were okay," Acaeus said, concern mixing with a half-hearted attempt at a chiding tone. Ronan exhaled sharply, endlessly thankful that Acaeus hadn't questioned the origin of the injury.

"I was," Ronan said quickly. "I am." Acaeus raised an eyebrow. Ronan sighed, drew his hand away from the other man's touch, and stood. He dragged the chair back over to the vanity.

"Ronan—"

"Really, Acaeus," he said. "I'm fine."

Acaeus opened his mouth with a rebuttal at his lips, then appeared to think better of it, catching the look in Ronan's eyes. Just as it was on Ronan's end, he, too, knew when to quit.

"Let me know if that changes."

The comment was left open; Ronan didn't respond. Instead, he sat back on what he supposed was his side of the bed while Acaeus stood and towel-dried his hair, pulling on his clothes and working through the process of braiding back his curls. Ronan would have offered to do it, but he knew that Acaeus was too perceptive to be around when he was already close to his breaking point. One way or another, if he spoke, Acaeus would get the truth out of him—while that truth was nothing he didn't already know outside of the brief brush with blood magic, Ronan would prefer to keep his fears to himself.

There was a knock at the door, and he exchanged a glance with Acaeus. The knight shook his head—this visitor was not expected as the last one had been. While Ronan was deciding whether or not he should reach for his trident, a familiar voice reached his ears.

"It's just me." Wynne. Ronan relaxed, and slid off the bed, and trudged to the door, opening it so that Wynne could walk through if she chose to.

"Everything okay?" Ronan figured the question needed to be asked.

"For the time being," Wynne said easily, stepping inside and allowing Ronan to shut the door behind her. "Shivaroth told me to tell you that he'd like to speak with you when you have a moment." Ronan grimaced. The amount of conversation he had already partaken in was exhausting enough. Wynne, catching Ronan's obvious exasperation, grinned.

"He also said it could wait." Wynne's smile didn't fade. "You know, Ronan, if you're going to be king, you'll need to learn how to maintain a better poker face."

Ronan didn't point out the obvious 'if' in that statement. He skipped the pleasantries. Acaeus finished his braid and walked over to peer out the window, giving the two of them as much privacy as the small room would allow.

"The patrons in the tavern say that Zia's fleet is at the Port of Llyran."

Wynne's eyes widened. "That's close."

Ronan nodded, tapping the tip of his toe against the floor.

"It means we'll probably have to leave here before our three days are up," he said reluctantly.

Wynne nodded. "At the very least, Arterus will be glad." She turned her focus to Acaeus. "That boy looked about ready to drop dead from anger when you were done with him."

"Not my fault he doesn't know his way around a conversation," he said with a distracted shrug.

"Whatever you say." Wynne sighed. "So, say we find Zia. What then?"

Ronan's fidgeting ceased.

"I haven't gotten that far ahead."

"We can keep running," Wynne began to count the options off on her fingers, "we can fight back. We can rally what remains of the army." She winced. "We can ask Shivaroth if he knows any more than he told you."

"He doesn't," Ronan said confidently. "And even if he had held anything back, I doubt he'd give any of it up just because we asked nicely." Wynne didn't protest—they both knew he spoke the truth, at least in the latter bit. Shivaroth, having fallen into the forced amiability that traveling under pressure often prompted, had not yet proved himself to be their enemy, but not quite an ally either. If he was holding something back, it was unlikely he'd jeopardize his situation and tell them outright.

"We'll figure it out once we've found her." Ronan's exhaustion was quickly shifting to apathy. "I doubt this is even something we can plan. Knowing our luck, for every one thing that goes right, ten must go wrong."

The room was starting to feel stifling. The walls were dark and close. Wynne seemed to catch the discomfort in his eyes, because she nodded and moved back toward the door.

"In that case," she said gravely, "let us hope the next ten will give us a chance to breathe."


	6. VI. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the circle catches their breath, and there is absolutely nothing sinister looming on the horizon-i promise.

If anyone could say they had been left untouched by the war, it would be the people of Illirium. Most outside the city were under Rhydellan rule, and though the majority within Illirium's towering peak had lost someone, they were still blissfully free. As he wandered the streets the next morning, when the magelight "sun" was overhead to signal noon, Ronan wondered how long it would stay that way.

The city, as dark as it may have been, was made bright by its people. This much was clear as he navigated through the crowds beside Acaeus and Wynne, who had insisted on accompanying him, citing the possibility of danger that Ronan was choosing to ignore. The stalls of the open market that sat on the city's base were brightly colored in reds and purples, a purposeful contrast that sat well beneath the ice-blue of the magelight. The merchants that tended them were just as vibrant, wearing bright swathes of cloth and heavy jewelry.

When they had walked for an hour or so, Wynne passed him off to Acaeus, who knew the city better. Citing some planning she had to do for the trip to Llyran, she parted from them with a nod to Acaeus and a quick kiss to the top of Ronan's head. Without Wynne, he felt even smaller, acutely aware of the city stretched out before him. Part of him enjoyed being in a new place, while the rest begged for any hint of familiarity. Seeming to see this in his eyes, Acaeus pulled him off the main street and down through an alleyway.

"Is there anywhere in particular you wanted to go? I worked here for a bit, you know. Back when Liliana owned _The Dove and Raven_."

"I remember," Ronan said. Wynne's wife had been a prominent informant at the time—her noble heritage gave her the in she needed in most of the higher-up circles, and she'd started taverns in all of the major cities on the island to gather more of the knowledge she sold. She'd been Acaeus' caretaker for a year or so before he'd gone back out onto the sea and finally to Adacia proper, but in the span of time he'd been gone, she'd left her taverns in the management of her agents and retreated to her family estate in the center of the island, having heard news of the Rhydellan strike mere hours before it happened.

It was her warning, whispered to Wynne by one of her agents, that had saved their lives when the first siege hit. Had it not been for Liliana, he was sure he would have been dead within an hour after the first Rhydellan ships had touched down on Adacia's shores. He had not yet gotten the chance to thank her in person—Wynne had not gone back to see her in the half-year they'd been at Solthorne, worried that her presence or that of the Circle would alert Rhydel of someone else that needed killing.

For her safety, Wynne had said, they would stay away.

"Ronan?"

"Sorry." He looked around. "I don't know of anywhere in particular. Any suggestions?" As Acaeus bit his lip, considering their options, Ronan allowed his mind to turn back to Shivaroth, who he'd agreed to meet when the artificial city lights began to dim, signaling dusk. He was to join him at a temple dedicated to the Seven, one that had been deserted for many years. Acaeus spoke again as he was considering what topic Shivaroth was planning to breach.

"Well, you've seen the tavern, the gates, the markets. Most of your bases are covered, but there is one thing you haven't seen." Acaeus' eyes glinted with excitement. He pointed to the peak of the mountain. "The old mine shafts are up that way," he said. "There's not much else to see down here unless you want to come train with me, but if we go to the mines there are a few things I could show you. That would probably kill the rest of the time before you have to go meet Shivaroth—think of it as a thank you for taking care of me back at the Reach."

"As long as you don't try to scare me like you did last time you took me into a cave," he muttered with a smile. As they started walking toward the winding set of stairs that were carved into the mountainside, Acaeus laughed, the sound of it immediately putting Ronan at ease. If he was able to laugh even after what they had been through over the last four days, perhaps the situation wasn't quite as grim as he had thought.

"That was three years ago, Ronan."

"Maybe so," he said with a good-humored air of haughtiness, "but it still keeps me up at night. You don't do something like that to a child."

Acaeus was struggling to keep his composure. "I only told you there was a spider in your hair."

"And look what it did." He gestured to himself. "I'm still afraid of them."

"Well, perhaps that's because you're a coward." Acaeus grinned, Ronan gave an over-dramatic gasp.

"Oh, how you wound me."

"I speak nothing but the truth, and you know it."

Their words sprung easily to their lips, an effortless exchange of those desperate for a moment of peace they'd finally decided to create for themselves. By the time they'd reached the top of the stairs and Acaeus stopped walking before the mouth of a mineshaft, lit deep from within by torches of undying magelight, Ronan had been able to calm himself more significantly than he had in days, the only tell of his stress being his fidgeting with the cloth bandage around his palm.

"Shall we?" Acaeus offered him his arm, which Ronan took, pulling his hand away from his prying fingers so he could avoid tearing the strip of Shivaroth's tunic to shreds.

"Of course. Show me the wonders of this cold, dark hole."

Acaeus snorted, a childlike smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "They span the whole mountain. Every level of the city has an access point or two, some are just easier to find than others. The resources were all stripped from them years ago, so most of the tunnels have been blocked off to prevent children from wandering in." Acaeus nodded to where their tunnel branched into three ahead of them. "It's a maze down here," he murmured. "I got lost running from the guards, once—they didn't even try to follow me in because they knew if they got lost it was as good as a death sentence."

Ronan raised an eyebrow as Acaeus led them down one of the three tunnels. "How did you find your way back?"

"Dumb luck, I'd say. If I was a bit more devout, perhaps I would think it was the will of the gods, but the Three aren't exactly known for their attentiveness to anyone, let alone stray Rhydellan children."

Ronan nodded and glanced around, studying the worn stone walls, chipped and scarred where people had worked long ago to extract anything valuable. They, as with much else in Adacia, were wrought with a history of which they dared not speak, the stone holding enough secrets that it could overwhelm even the all-knowing.

"And now," Ronan murmured, "let me get this straight. You're taking me into Illirium's death trap of a cave system?"

"We're not going far," Acaeus said evenly, "and I know where I'm going. We're not staying long, as you have to get back to Shivaroth and I to Wynne, but there is something at the end of this tunnel I suspect you might enjoy."

He shot Acaeus a searching look, eyes catching on the scars on his face that seemed to glow beneath the magelight. Acaeus turned his head and Ronan dropped his gaze, not wanting him to know he'd been staring.

They walked in silence for a bit, with Ronan considering their situation and Acaeus' thoughts wandering somewhere Ronan didn't attempt to unravel. The two of them, ever trusting of the other, moved with an ease they hadn't experienced since they'd fled Solthorne.

It wasn't long before they'd emerged into a large, open cave, natural in a stark contrast to the carved-out ones he'd seen previously. There was a magelight torch mounted on the opposite wall, and as Acaeus released his arm, Ronan began to take in his surroundings.

The ceiling was high; much higher than it had been in the tunnel, and beneath it was a jagged array of stone cut cleanly by a pool of dark water, clear enough that it seemed to absorb every reflection cast upon it. Ronan's eyes widened and he edged forward, peering into it. The water welled up from the bottom, a hole fifteen feet below the surface that released a bubble of air every few seconds. He looked up at Acaeus in awe.

"What is this?" He whispered, looking back down as Acaeus came to stand beside him.

"Those that live here call it the _Esho'Taha_ ," Acaeus murmured. His Old Adacian, a bit stilted by his Rhydellan accent, was clear enough for Ronan to translate.

"The Void Mirror," Ronan said. "Like the Void Gate?"

"Something like that. It isn't the gate, obviously. We wouldn't be alive if it was. It's called that because—" Acaeus sat down, kneeling at the water's edge and gesturing for Ronan to follow suit. As he knelt, he was careful to keep his fingertips from touching the water. "—because it can do this." Acaeus spoke a word—" _ahkto_ "— and the magelight torch across from them went out. Moments later, his magic reared up beneath his skin, leaping from his fingertips, the blue sparks edging out from his hands. By the bit of light the electricity provided, Ronan watched as Acaeus submerged his hands in the water up to his wrists and took a deep breath.

Blue arced out from his palms, illuminating the water, casting a bright glow onto the walls around them. As the light grew, Acaeus twisted his hand beneath the surface, an action that caused the water to lurch and shift, carrying the tendrils of blue light on its current.

"Are you ready?" Acaeus glanced over at him and grinned. Ronan, mystified, only nodded.

"Give me your hand." Ronan obeyed, holding out the hand with the cloth around it without thinking. Acaeus gripped his wrist in chilled fingers, taking a deep breath before plunging Ronan's hand into the pool.

The water calmed, moved up to greet him, his hand bright in the glow cast by Acaeus' magic. The tendrils of blue snaked closer, as if to wrap around his fingers, but as soon as they got close enough they would die out, and they continued this cycle until the water was dark again and Acaeus' hand was loose around his wrist.

They were both silent for a moment, Ronan's silence derived from confusion, Acaeus' from something else that Ronan couldn't place in the darkness. Acaeus spoke before he could ask any questions.

"Ronan," he breathed, taking his hand from the prince's arm and drawing the other from the water, "I—did you—" He sounded choked, horrified. He echoed the same word he had spoken to kill the light, and this time the blue fire lit with a passion, illuminating the knight's wide eyes and pale face.

"Did I what?" Ronan shook the water from his hand. "Acaeus, what's wrong?"

Without speaking, Acaeus took his hand, turning it over so Ronan's palm was facing up before he tugged the cloth from it. The cut across his skin had scabbed over, but it was easily visible by the light of the torch. Acaeus exhaled harshly, a curse on his lips.

"Blood magic," he whispered, dropping Ronan's hand and looking as if he wanted to run from the cavern. "Why—how could you?"

"You don't know that's what that was," Ronan said, panic rising in him at the look in Acaeus' eyes.

"I do," the knight whispered. "Don't try to lie. The only thing that nullifies magic like that is the lingering effect of a blood ritual." He nodded to the _Esho'Taha_. "That—that wasn't supposed to happen. That doesn't happen. You nullified the effects of my magic, Ronan. That isn't something that someone without magic can do unless they've—they—"

"It was nothing," Ronan said hurriedly. "Please, listen to me. Shivaroth and I had to open the door to that ritual chamber, that was all it was. It wasn't anything dangerous."

"It's all dangerous," Acaeus hissed. "I've seen it. I've _done_ it. It's all fucking dangerous."

"Acaeus," Ronan tried another topic, desperate to convey his point. "We found something in there. Something that I've been meaning to tell you about—"

"But couldn't because of that charming blood magic bit?" He had rarely seen this level of fury in Acaeus' eyes. "How darling." Ronan's hands shot out to clutch at the front of Acaeus' tunic, and he felt a pang of hurt go through him when Acaeus flinched away at the touch.

"No," Ronan hissed, "because we have been running for our lives, and by the gods, I wanted to give you a moment of peace. There was a symbol on that wall, drawn in blood."

"Lovely."

"It was the Eye of Aevar, Acaeus."

"That monastery had turned from the Seven to worship the Three," Acaeus muttered. "Stop lying."

"I'm not—" Ronan's voice had grown desperate and rushed. He took a deep breath before continuing. "I'm not lying," he said, significantly less frantic. "They had that eye on the wall, drawn seven hundred years ago, with a circle of words around it. Do you want to hear what it said?"

"Not from you."

"It was my name, next to a title. _Avok'Shai_." He watched Acaeus stiffen beneath his hands, showing that he understood, though the knight never gave an inch. He pulled himself from Ronan's grasp and stood, shaking his head.

"If you want to make it out of here without getting hopelessly turned around, you need to follow me out." Acaeus didn't meet his eyes, but when he started walking, Ronan followed, tying the strip of fabric over the cut before it could do more harm than it already had.

"Please, Acaeus. I didn't do this to hurt you. I saw an opportunity to gain an understanding of our situation, and I took it."

"You could have gotten yourself killed."

"It was only a door—"

Acaeus whirled around. "It was blood magic! Do you know what even one ritual is capable of? It can invite demons to your position, awaken parts of yourself that you could never imagine. I'm not—no, I am mad, I'm furious—but I'm not saying any of this to be harsh. You need to understand this if we are to travel together, Aldrea. I've seen a cut on the palm, just like yours, kill good people. I've watched someone's blood burn them from the inside out. When you tamper with this aspect of magic, it doesn't leave you as the same person you were before. You begin to crave it; your mind begs you for even a taste of that power until you are little more than a slave to your desire. This—" he grabbed Ronan's hand and held it up between them, "—is not enough to bring that. But should you do it again, or attempt something larger, it will begin to haunt you until it is impossible to resist."

"You said..." Ronan bit his lip. "You said you'd done it."

Acaeus froze, then turned his own palm up. In the midst of the jagged scarring from the lightning's touch, a thicker scar was layered over them, where he guessed the skin must have been split time and time again.

"I have," he whispered. "I was young, I didn't know any better. I hurt people without even possessing the ability to comprehend what I was doing."

Ronan took his hand, ran a finger over the scar. "Do you still—how do you stop yourself?"

"It's not bad unless I can feel it near me. Ritual chambers—the Reach—those places are hard."

"You should have told me," Ronan said. He opened his mouth to say more, but Acaeus drew his hand back and continued walking.

"I really don't think you have the right to say that right now," he muttered. "Unless you're looking for a good example of hypocrisy."

Ronan fell into reluctant step behind him, staying silent until they reached the tunnel's entrance. He met Acaeus' eyes as they re-emerged into the light of the city, which had already dimmed, a clear sign he was already late for his meeting with Shivaroth. Before Acaeus could make a silent exit, Ronan caught his arm.

"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I truly am."

"I know." Acaeus' eyes were still an unreadable mess of anger and fear. "I just—" his gaze flitted down to Ronan's hand. "I need to go." Acaeus turned before he had a chance to respond, and Ronan was left standing alone among the towering buildings, replaying Acaeus' words in his head.

He wondered if the information he'd gained had been worth it. If that distrust he'd seen so starkly on Acaeus' features would ever fully dissipate. His feet began to carry him toward Shivaroth's position unbidden, and he tucked his hand beneath his cloak, feeling an itching disgust make its way through him at the thought of the cut on his palm. As he ducked through the crowd with his head down and his fingers tight in the cloth of his sleeve, he felt that same disgust turn to shame and then something deeper, something that forced him to grit his teeth and hunch his shoulders over.

Being just aware enough of his surroundings to make his way to the staircase that would lead him down to the temple, Ronan almost missed the sound of the hunting horn that carried in the stagnant air of the city.

Almost.


	7. VII. Risen Ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the last summary was a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood/injury!

After the first, the horns continued to sound. One after another, they echoed around the peak of the mountain where he'd wedged himself, ominous and heavy in the air. He stood, ducking through crowds of people who had stopped in their tracks at the noise, pushing his way toward the railing and looking down into the city below.

At the mountain's base, the magelight fires were being extinguished. One went out, and then another, until the buildings were cloaked in darkness and the crowd around him had dropped their things and started running. Ronan simply stared, wide-eyed, as another horn sounded.

They all knew what this meant. Adacia was no longer ignorant to the warning signs. No one was waiting to see what was happening—their innocence had been replaced with a brutal realism. They saw as well as Ronan that the war had finally come to take their city.

For a moment all he could do was stand and stare into the darkness, fully aware of what was happening yet unable to lift his feet and run with the rest of the crowd. His mind went through the motions even while his body remained frozen.

Find Wynne. Find Acaeus. Find Shivaroth. Leave the city.

Far below, a building went up in flames. Screams began to reach his ears. He wrenched his hands from the railing and drew his trident from the sheath at his back, grateful that Wynne had made him carry it. He steeled himself, and dove into the crowd. Those that had weapons had them drawn, and those that didn't ducked and wove between buildings and people, trying to get out as quickly as they could. With the magelight near the top of the city still burning, Ronan was able to see just enough to run down the steps to one of the lower levels before the lights went out for good. The upper levels were plunged into darkness with the rest of Illirium. The crowd still milled about around him but he stood still, feeling his way along the wall and pressing his back against it for good measure.

It was pitch black. He had no source of light. He was able to catch flashes of his surroundings as magic was ignited, bright lights in cupped hands or violent flashes where one was fighting another. He had no way out, no way to find light, and no way to know who to avoid. He cursed vehemently.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, and thought back to a time when he was younger, about ten. He had fallen in the forest, knocked himself unconscious, and broken his wrist. He was sure he would die then and there, prophecy be damned. He had gotten on his knees and prayed—an action he hadn't partaken in for some time, after his attitude toward the gods shifted from simple impiety to distrust—and Shivaroth had answered. He had guided him then, Ronan thought, determination working its way through him, and he could guide him again now.

That was assuming, of course, that Shivaroth didn't want him dead as well. That his claims of being unsure of how he arrived on Ishtel were true. His wide eyes stared ahead into the blackness, seeing nothing but the slight shifting movement of the crowd fumbling as they ran. The noise, though—the noise was everywhere.

Screams, hunting horns, metal meeting metal at the city's base. Ronan steeled himself. He had nothing left to lose. He got down on his knees.

"Shivaroth," he whispered, setting his trident down before him and placing his bare palms flat on the stone ground. " _Ti'ra_." Please. "I need you." A warm presence enveloped him, and he felt the faint touch of hands on his own, hands that weren't quite there. He felt a brief flash of pity for those that did not have a direct line of communication with their pantheon, those that never received a tangible answer from their gods but prayed anyway.

" _Ronan_." Shivaroth's voice made him shudder. It was as overwhelming as it had been in Serenvah, echoing and deep, filling his mind.

"I need you to show me where you are. Lead me to you."

" _I cannot_."

"What do you mean?" Ronan shut his eyes and muttered a curse. "You've done it before."

" _Not while I stood in Ishtel. I am weak here_." There was a hint of desperation in the projection of Shivaroth's voice, and Ronan had half a mind to ask him if he was okay, but he knew the answer. Neither of them were dead, but neither of them were in good positions. Sometimes that was all one could wish for.

"Can you do anything?" He said finally. There was a long pause.

" _You already know my position. I can do little more to guide you to it, but I will continue speaking to you if you wish_."

Ronan hesitated. "Where is this temple? Where exactly?"

" _North of the entrance. Second level_." He stood, hands clutching the smooth leather grip of his trident, and he felt the presence of Shivaroth rise with him.

"Are you okay to maintain contact?"

" _I am not yet that weak_ ," Shivaroth muttered with a hint of aggrievance. " _I cannot see through your eyes, but I can speak with you. That is the trouble with this state. I am not quite a god, but not quite mortal_."

Ronan began to move forward, feeling for the way ahead of him with the blunt end of his trident. He followed the crowd tediously down a set of stairs, staying silent in favor of concentration.

" _Is anyone else with you?_ "

"No," Ronan said through gritted teeth. "Acaeus—uh, Acaeus left me a bit ago. Wynne went somewhere to plan for our departure, which could put her anywhere."

" _This is not good_."

"You've got that right." He stumbled, tripping as he reached another staircase, catching himself with a panicked yelp.

" _Are you alright?_ "

"Fine," he breathed. "You said you were on the second level?"

" _Yes_."

That meant one more to go. His eyes were drawn to a flash of light off to the side—magic, illuminating red armored figures and a rearing horse. He put his hand up against the flash and did his best to hide himself in the crowd.

There was no way this was a coincidence. No way the Rhydellan army would show up only days after his arrival, regardless of Zia's fleet landing in the harbor. He slipped out of the crowd, looking toward the middle of the lower city, toward the closest concentration of the flashes of magic, looking for red hair and blue warpaint. Looking for Aevar.

"Shivaroth," he breathed. "Can you tell if Aevar is here?"

" _There is an intense presence in the city, but I cannot tell you if it is his. I would not be surprised if it was; his persistence is legendary even among the pantheon. Be careful_."

Shoulders tense, Ronan edged forward, breaking off from the rest of the crowd, knowing that larger groups would be targeted first. He pressed his shoulder against the wall of a building as he walked, needing some form of support. His hands were starting to shake.

"Shit," he muttered. "Shiva, I don't know where to go."

" _Be steady_." Shivaroth's voice had evened itself out, likely for Ronan's sake. " _You will find your way_."

His trident dropped suddenly when he moved it forward along the ground, and he heard it land on another piece of stone a foot or so down. More stairs, Ronan realized, these ones sounding deserted. Sighing in relief, Ronan took them two at a time, his free hand locked firmly on the railing.

It was only one level. He could search one level. He could do it.

A light approached him, wielded by someone who was running up the same steps he so desperately descended. He locked eyes with the one with the magic, freezing when he saw that they wore crimson armor. They studied him—his trident, his shocked face, his black leather chestplate. He could see the wheels turning. Everything about him screamed, "I'm not with you." Everything about him was a red flag. Ronan wasn't surprised when the figure acted accordingly, and swung their weapon.

Ronan blocked the first swing of their sword with a hiss of effort, and he felt the forced calm of Shivaroth's presence shift to apprehension.

" _Ronan?_ " He didn't answer—the Rhydellan pushed forward and he stumbled back on the steps, nearly tripping. The light was threatening to make his eyes water. His panic mounted.

There was no rescue here, no ally to help him, nothing Shivaroth could do from his position in the temple. He was alone—he drove his trident forward in an attempt to go on the offensive—and if he didn't find a way to get to Shivaroth soon, he and his Circle would be as good as dead.

" _Ronan, answer me_."

The Rhydellan's eyes glinted as they lunged at him. They grabbed the head of his trident, dragging him forward and forcing him to duck beneath their next swing. The stairs were not working to his advantage. He stumbled, putting him below his attacker, and barely managed to get his trident up in time to block the next blow.

It had to have been complete luck that his next attack swept the soldier off of their legs. Ronan's eyes widened in surprise even while his body acted on instinct and he darted in for the finishing blow, driving the three-pronged spear through their throat. Ignoring his nausea as the Rhydellan's thrashing stopped, he gave a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

"Someone attacked," he said shakily to Shivaroth. He turned, his vision swimming with the absence of the blinding light. "I'm alright." Shivaroth's relief was tangible.

" _Are you sure?_ "

"Yes," Ronan said. "I'm—"

He stepped down to the next stair, feeling pressure against his armor as he did so. Something cold and sharp pierced his torso. As his eyes widened in shock, his hands came up to grasp at the blade that had been driven through his armor from the front. A choked exhale escaped him.

"I'm—" it was weak. A desperate attempt to speak. The sword was torn from his body and he fell to his knees, entirely at the mercy of his attacker, who kicked him aside and continued up the stairs. Ronan dropped his trident, catching a glimpse of a red-armored soldier walking away from him. One that he hadn't seen in the darkness. One that may very well have just spelled out his doom.

" _Ronan?_ "

He couldn't answer. Couldn't speak. In the darkness, he cupped his hands over the wound, feeling a warm rush of blood pour over his fingers. Another breath was drawn in roughly, then driven from him with a harsh cough. Shivaroth's voice became frantic.

" _Ronan, tell me what is happening, I—I need you to talk to me_."

Ronan blindly reached for his trident, fingers grasping in the darkness until they found metal. After his shaking hand had slowly tightened around it, he found his voice.

"Stabbed," he choked out. He was sprawled on the staircase, his eyes growing heavy.

" _Get up_."

"I can't."

" _You can_ ," Shivaroth hissed in his mind. " _Get up_."

"Shiva, I'm sorry."

" _No_ ," the god said harshly. " _Get. Up_." He tried, and only succeeded in grasping the railing with a bloodied hand. His fingers, slick and numb, threatened to lose their grip.

" _I need you to listen to me. You are strong enough to do this. Make it to me, and I can help you. I promise_."

Shivaroth's voice was shaking. Ronan pulled himself up with a cry and stepped down a stair, almost falling as his knees threatened to give out.

"Don't know where you are," Ronan managed. "Show me the way. Please."

" _I cannot_ ," Shivaroth said, anguish in his words. " _I would have to leave you_."

"Do it."

" _I—_ "

"I won't find you in time if you don't. We both know it." Ronan's breath was coming in short gasps. He put his foot on the next step, using the railing to keep himself upright and his trident to guide him. He felt blood running down his side, but ignored it.

Shivaroth hesitated.

" _I will be able to show you just once. The beacon will be directly above the door to the temple_."

"Okay," Ronan whispered, holding himself steady on the stairs.

" _I will see you in a moment_." The god said it like he was trying to convince them both.

"Thank you, Shivaroth."

There was no answer. A chill rushed through his bones as Shivaroth's presence departed him. Twenty feet ahead, he saw a deep purple light flicker into existence above an old stone door built into the mountain. Ronan could have cried in relief.

He took the rest of the steps carelessly, his feet clumsy and his vision warping. As the light was fading, Ronan stumbled, catching himself with his trident and staggering the last few feet to the door. He raised a bloodied fist and pounded on the stone surface.

Moments later it was thrown open, and Ronan's steadily darkening vision fixed itself on Shivaroth's distorted form. He took a step forward and collapsed against him, blocking out the god's cry of alarm. The trident slid from Ronan's grip and his hand came up to clutch at Shivaroth's shoulder, fingers grasping the cloth of his coat and a few stray curls of dark hair. Shivaroth kicked the door shut behind him.

"I have you," he said gently, a tremor in his voice. "Just hold on." He was lowered to the ground, and Shivaroth's fingers worked deftly to discard his armor and reveal the wound in his side. It was wide and deep, and the blood didn't stop flowing.

"Stay still." Shivaroth's hands began to radiate the same warmth that Acaeus' took on when he was using healing magic, and Ronan obeyed, panicked breathing giving way to a wave of calm as his skin began to knit itself back together.

The wound was less than a quarter closed when the warm light around Shivaroth's hands flickered and died, and he cursed.

"Not now," he whispered. Ronan forced himself to focus.

"It's okay," he said. "I think I'm—" he breathed in, desperate to have air back in his lungs. "I think I'm alright." Shivaroth ignored him, standing up and darting over to a shelf before returning with a roll of bandages. The god helped him sit, then silently dressed the wound with shaking hands.

"Shivaroth," he said softly. "I'm okay." Pain still radiated from his side, but despite the remaining bleeding the immediate danger seemed to have passed, leaving him to stare at Shivaroth's panic-stricken face.

"I know," the god managed. "I just need a moment." Ronan nodded, catching his breath and waiting for his head to stop swimming from the close call. Had Shivaroth not been there when he had, the prophecy would never have come to pass—he would have been dead long before his twentieth birthday.

"Are you alright?" Ronan asked finally. Shivaroth ran a slender hand through his hair, his fingers catching on his dark curls.

"I will be. You need to be more careful."

"I will," Ronan said quickly. He winced, and put a hand to his side. "I'm in no rush to go through that again." His vision still swam, but he studied Shivaroth's face.

"Your magic, is it—"

"Temporarily exhausted," the god muttered. "My magic seems to be bound by Ishtel's rules just as anyone else's."

"Will you be okay to get out of here?"

Shivaroth tapped his fingers against the hilt of the scimitar beneath his coat, now stained with Ronan's blood. "I do not need my magic to fight."

Ronan nodded, then shivered, swaying where he sat. Shivaroth hooked an arm around his shoulders to keep him upright, letting him slump against his chest. The god's eyes were shining in the dim firelight of the temple, wide and determined.

"Where are we going to go? What do we do?" Ronan's voice was raw and rasping. He felt Shivaroth's fingers twitch on his arm as another wave of hunting horns sounded outside.

"We..." Shivaroth trailed off, eyes darting around the temple. It was simple, a cavernous room carved out of stone, with scenes painted on the walls and a gold altar at the far side of it. It was deserted. They were the only two that had thought to go there. "We may need to go through the mines." Ronan tensed, remembering Acaeus' stories.

"The mines? We'll never find our way out of there, we—we can't—"

"I do not think we have a choice." Shivaroth spoke mournfully. "Going out through the front would be a death sentence."

"We can't leave without Wynne and Acaeus," Ronan protested. "They'll be killed!"

"And so will we if we stay any longer."

"'We'?" Ronan's tone rested somewhere between anger and disbelief. "You're immortal," he said. "You are in no position to decide who dies." Shivaroth pulled back and stood, scoffing.

"Ronan, I am a _god_. That is the very core of what I do."

"That's not my point. You can't die."

Shivaroth turned on him with a glare. "I can," he growled. "Because of this. Because of your prophecy."

Ronan fell silent, shocked. He stayed seated on the cold floor.

"What?"

"Cut me, and I bleed. Strike me, and I fall. I have no way back to Feihjelm to collect myself, no way of healing my own person—I have been cut off from my source of divine power and instead bound to this realm. Whoever wanted me by your side wanted me to be able to fall with you, and they got their wish." Shivaroth began to pace. "I may not have a right to decide who among mortals lives or dies in your eyes, Ronan, but I most certainly have a right to self-preservation."

Ronan breathed in, then out. "I didn't know."

"You could not have," Shivaroth muttered, the fight going out of him. "You did not know the details of the situation."

"I'm sorry."

Shivaroth turned his head away, and Ronan stood with a groan of effort, taking a few steps forward and catching Shivaroth's wrist with bloodied fingers, stopping the god in his tracks. "Truly," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

"That is what I wanted to talk to you about," Shivaroth said finally. "The fine print of this. Of my presence here."

"And?"

"And the short version is, as I understand it now, that I can be killed. I can be hurt. I am more resilient than a human, immune to some things that would harm you, but I am still vulnerable. Until I can return, Serenvah will be looked after by another of the Seven. Likely Hanwey," he murmured to himself. "She has a gentle hand."

"How do you know?"

"Similar things have happened to others," Shivaroth said softly. "The closest equivalent would be a soul-binding contract, where a god is made mortal and bound to their summoner's essence. I may not be bound to you, but from what I have pieced together, many of the other terms fit. If my hunch is correct, it means I am only here as long as you are or until the one that put me here calls me back, reverses the ritual, or dies—one way or another."

Ronan looked around the temple, surveying the murals. They detailed the realm of the gods, and his eyes finally fell on the faded painting of the willow grove of Serenvah. In the dust before it, there was a patch that had been disturbed where someone had sat, and he glanced away. It made sense why Shivaroth had come here, he thought with no lack of anguish. He missed his home.

He ran through the names of the Seven in his head. Aevar, god of strife. Calyseus, god of magic. Amiriah, goddess of bright wisdom. Felhan, god of the hunt. Eltirash, goddess of the Dark Seas, the realm of the dead. Hanwey, goddess of serenity. And, of course, Shivaroth—god of dreams. It could be argued, however, that Shivaroth no longer had a place among the Seven after his half-death and long absence. Ronan would disagree—Shivaroth's role was much too important for him to be brushed aside with such ease.

He could not predict which of the Seven would side with Aevar, if any. He hadn't considered the possibility of his enemy finding allies. With this realization came another.

"Shivaroth, if you can be killed—"

The god paled. "Ronan—"

"—can Aevar?"

"I will not help you become an _Avok'Shai_ ," he hissed. "I will not help you dismantle the order of things. No mortal should hold that power."

Ronan laughed aloud.

"Oh, do you want to bring up the imbalance of power? Need I remind you that your kind rules mine without any hint of mercy? That the pantheon answers to no one but their own authority, that gods are free to wreak havoc on Ishtel—has anyone even tried to halt Aevar's power-hungry crusade?"

"He has a claim to you," Shivaroth said, but Ronan could hear the guilt beneath his indignation. "What he does is legal, in the eyes of most of the pantheon, even if it is upsetting."

"And if it becomes illegal? What then?"

"Then we hold a trial."

"If he is sentenced?"

"He will be removed from Ishtel and bound to Feihjelm."

"Pray tell, what constitutes illegality in your eyes?"

Shivaroth hesitated, and they held each other's gaze stubbornly even while the noises of war rose outside.

"An unjust claim," he said with shame. "Among other things."

"Claiming a child before their birth doesn't seem 'unjust' to you, Shivaroth? Look at me. I was the prince of Adacia. I had a life ahead of me. I was six years old when I was told about the prophecy. Do you know what that does to a child? Do you know how to feels to have your father look you in the eyes and tell you that you are going to die, and that he is sorry that he can't protect you from your fate? To see your father cry over a death, your death, when you are standing before him, vibrantly alive?" Ronan's voice was shaking with agony. "Your laws are bullshit. Your rules are bullshit. The gods, Shivaroth, are bullshit."

"Ronan, please consider this further. Don't be rash."

Ronan stepped forward, bloodstained shirt hanging loose on his thin frame. "I will not become an _Avok'Shai_. I will not be the one to bring chaos to this realm. But listen to me, Shivaroth—Aevar is evil, purely, to his core. He deserves a fate that I am refusing to give him."

Shivaroth made a slight noise of distress as Ronan painstakingly bent to retrieve his armor, grabbing his trident after he'd put it on with a few winces of pain.

"Ronan, you must understand. He is no more evil than I."

"Why are you still defending him? All my life you have said what he is doing is wrong, you have aided me, guided my dreams and my hand. Why now do you hesitate?"

"Because I care for him! Are you blind? We may disagree with one another, but the pantheon knows that at the end of it all, we must hold steady! We are the reason your world hasn't fallen to ruin. We keep the balance between good and evil, right and wrong. We are the force that keeps everything neutral."

Ronan raised an arm and pointed toward the door, toward the fires and screams and clashes of weapons. "And this? This is your idea of neutral?"

There was a crash outside, and they both jumped. Shivaroth lowered his voice.

"Aevar cannot be killed as easily as I. He took a human form of his own volition, he chose this. He is still immortal."

Ronan's eyes hardened.

"And I just swore I wouldn't bring his demise, did I not? I will not kill him, but he is a villain. At some point or another, all villains bring their fates upon themselves."

"We don't have time for this," Shivaroth said desperately. "We disagree, leave it at that. We can argue later. If we stay, we die." He grabbed a torch off the wall, his blue skin tinted red from the flames, the tattoos over his eyelids colored crimson.

"And what of the others?"

Shivaroth looped a tentative arm around his waist, not flinching when Ronan moved a hand up to steady himself on the god's shoulder, even after their brief bout of fury. "We must leave them," he whispered. "They will be okay."

Ronan thought of the staircase, of the wound that had already bled through his bandages. They wouldn't be okay, but there was no other choice, no way around it.

"They'll know to meet us at the Port of Llyran if they escape." Ronan attempted to blink back the threatening sting of tears. Shivaroth's arm tightened around him.

"There is a way into the mines hidden behind the altar." Shivaroth, ever merciful, ignored the tears that fell from his eyes. "I sensed it when I arrived here. We can go through there."

His anger was gone. In its place rose a desolate sadness, overtaking his fear. The absence of his Circle was a jarring shock, and he found himself wondering what he would do if they didn't make it out of the city. He wanted to protest, but he knew what they had to do. He knew Shivaroth was right.

"Okay." He gave his assent. They moved forth together, Ronan leaning heavily on Shivaroth, who was steady and warm by his side. He walked with an uneven limp, a sharp pain shooting through him with every movement. The room tilted.

"Stop," he managed, listing heavily into Shivaroth's side. The god adjusted himself, bearing Ronan's weight with relative ease.

"I can carry you," he offered, "but we cannot afford to stop. I am sorry, Ronan, truly, but we have wasted enough time as it is."

He closed his eyes and squared his jaw, gathering his strength and nodding with an air of finality. The two started forward again, and Shivaroth let go once to push the altar out of its place to reveal a passage behind it. He ushered the prince through before following himself, pulling the makeshift door back to its original position behind him. Ronan took a few steps on his own before catching Shivaroth's arm with a desperation he didn't try to hide. He didn't protest, letting Ronan lean against him as they made slow but consistent progress.

"You want to go to Llyran?" It was Shivaroth's attempt to keep him talking. Ronan, content with any kind of distraction, obliged him.

"Yes. It was the last place everyone agreed on, and I know them. That will be the place they'll go if they survive." They let the 'if' hang heavy in the air, and Ronan thought back to the bloodshed that he had only heard, veiled by the blackness that had stifled it all.

He would be surprised if anyone had made it out of that. Even with Illirium's large population of Asir, the Rhydellans had gotten the upper hand—they'd brought their own mages, torches, and light sources; they could see their targets. The Adacians, not quite so lucky, were as easy to hunt as wounded rabbits.

"I don't know what I'll do if they don't—" his voice broke. "If the Circle falls."

"You will move forward."

"But for how long? I only have ten days before I turn twenty. The prophecy—"

"The prophecy will fulfill itself as it sees fit. For now, it is out of both of our hands." Shivaroth shifted his torch, casting light around the long tunnel before them. His breath was visible in front of his face, and the farther forward they went, the more intense the chill became.

"We're fighting a losing battle," Ronan muttered. "Fighting for a doomed cause."

"We are fighting for our lives, regardless of how long they will last." Shivaroth pushed his hair away from his eyes. "Let us leave it at that."


	8. VIII. Shrouded Elegy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> separated from the rest of the circle, ronan & shivaroth attempt to escape from illrium.

The mines led them on a winding path through the mountain. They moved through caverns, ducked under half-collapsed beams, and paused multiple times in a panic as Shivaroth set him down to make sure their torch would not be extinguished by the frigid water that dripped from the ceiling and pooled on the ground.

They saw light a total of three times throughout the first hour. Once as a glimpse of the moon through a crack in the wall, once as a flicker of magic barely visible down one of the other mineshafts, and once as a flash of eyes in the dark. In spite of their run of bad luck, they had not had any further run-ins with the Rhydellans, which Ronan grew increasingly grateful for as his state continued to deteriorate.

His forehead was beaded with cold sweat, the color had all but disappeared from his cheeks, and his bandages had been soaked through with his blood within the first half-hour of their trek. Judging by Shivaroth's increasingly frantic glances in his direction and their rapidly slowing pace, it was becoming more of an issue than either of them knew what to do with.

Hours later, they still had not found the exit, and Ronan had all but collapsed against Shivaroth. He could barely lift his feet, and the god stopped in his tracks, a hollow defeat ghosting over his features.

"Stay awake," Shivaroth had pleaded, not for the first time. "Just for a bit longer."

'A bit' always turned into an hour, then three. The night dragged on like an eternity, and Ronan began to think he'd never again see the snow-covered and windswept land that was Adacia.

Somewhere along the way, his knees buckled. His head started to swim. Shivaroth cursed and lowered him to the ground, letting him lean back against the wall and breathe. A moment later, the god brushed damp hair from Ronan's face and felt his forehead. He bowed his head.

" _Ahn'vahey_ ," Shivaroth muttered. Ronan knew little to none of the language of the gods, but the venomous tone with which the word was uttered made it abundantly clear that it was some sort of expletive.

"I'm—" Ronan's voice broke off into a shuddering exhale. "I'm sorry."

"Do not apologize, _miksahan_." Ronan knew that word. Dear one. Shivaroth's voice was ravaged with sorrow. "This is not your fault."

" _Vi'mahn viras, ak shal nai etash te'ran_ ," he breathed in Old Adacian. It was the beginning of a prayer, a prayer whispered for the dying and the dead. The words themselves were taken from the gods' language, twisted for the mouths of mortals.

"Do not speak those words." Shivaroth shook his head. "You are not dying." He picked up their torch and put two fingers beneath Ronan's chin, tilting his face up so their eyes met.

"I am going to find a way out. You are going to stay here."

"Please," Ronan whispered. "Don't leave." He could see the hesitation in Shivaroth's posture, in the way his bare feet shifted beneath him as he kneeled.

"If I stay, we will die here."

"You won't." Ronan's fingers curled around Shivaroth's sleeve. "You could escape. You'd be free to return to Feihjelm."

"That does not matter."

"You don't want to be here."

"That does not mean I am going to let you die!" Shivaroth's voice rang out around their small cavern. He bit his lip, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "I am not going to let you die," he tried again, this time with a forced calm. "I will be back. Stay awake."

Ronan didn't protest this time. He watched Shivaroth walk away, watched the ruined hem of his coat sweep through puddles and mud. The light faded, and Ronan's eyes followed it until he could no longer see it, leaving him alone in a room where the only sounds were the periodic splashes of water hitting stone.

He tilted his face up, groaning with effort as he shifted his position so his hands were tucked under his arms to protect them from the cold. He shivered, eyes focusing on nothing in the pitch-black cave, doing his best to ignore the agony that had worked its way through him. Feeling his mind start to get hazy, he forced himself to speak. To do anything to keep himself awake.

" _Vi'mahn viras, ak shal nai etash te'ran_." At long last, I see the gentle end. " _Enra shi le'tas firen, vohk atos em'ri nott_." I have walked tall, and fought with fury. " _Ma ras—_ " Ronan's voice broke. His teeth were chattering. The prayer he uttered was nothing more than a mantra at that point—he didn't believe the gods would have mercy for him now.

" _Ma ras at'vok til_." My arms are open. " _Merak atan ma ave ah'vihn_." I offer my final surrender.

He repeated it over and over, until his voice was raw and flat. No gods answered; nothing changed. He began to wonder if death was really all that bad. Maybe his death would solve things rather than complicate them—maybe it would be an act of mercy.

He entertained the thought until he heard the all too familiar screech of metal from the darkness far ahead of him, followed by a shout of pain. His eyes shot open, his shoulders tensed, and his hand shot out in the darkness, reaching for his trident with no regard for exhaustion or pain.

Ronan waited to see if it would happen again. He was drifting close enough to the edges of delirium as it was—he could be hearing things, it could be his mind playing tricks—

There it was. Another resonant crash. Ronan cursed, curling his stiff fingers around the chilled leather grip of his trident. Of course they wouldn't have been able to get out without running into trouble—the gods couldn't settle for a simple prophecy, no. They had to do everything in their power to push up the date of his death.

He pushed himself from the wall, slamming the base of his trident against the ground before he could fall. Using it to stay upright, he walked forward in the direction he had seen Shivaroth go, reaching out with his free hand to make sure there were no walls before him.

It was painstakingly slow, but he followed the sounds. What had started as a barely discernible noise had quickly become a cacophony of echoes, and Ronan picked up his pace until he was able to see a slight glow ahead of him. A torch, he recognized quickly. One that, upon closer inspection, had been dropped to the ground. He limped forward and picked it up, holding it out ahead of him to light the way. He ignored the dread in his heart and the pain in his side, pushing forward with the newfound strength that the sickening swell of adrenaline in his chest provided.

The sounds were getting louder. He kept walking. His body shook from cold and exertion, but he kept his jaw squared and his chin up.

There was a crash to his right and Ronan whirled, putting the torch up in time to see Shivaroth get pinned against the wall. The god was shoved back with a force unlike anything he had ever seen—his head hit the wall with a sickening thud and his scimitar slid from his slackened fingers. 

Ronan turned the torch on his attacker, wide-eyed. He had expected red armor, a red helmet, and a silver sword. The Rhydellan standard. What he found instead sent him staggering back a step. He bit his tongue to stifle a shout.

Before him, with its arm pressed hard against Shivaroth's chest, was a beast taller than any living being he had ever seen. Its curling horns scraped the lowest stalactite, and its scarred pelt was slick with blood and water. Ronan had heard tales of these creatures. Old, ancient beasts that lived in caves and ambushed anything that happened to be unlucky enough to wander in. They were called the ok'havel _._ The Demons of Stone. Ronan stood completely still, knowing that he had one chance to take it down. He had to be tactical and survey his—

The ok'havel reared back, readying its claws. Shivaroth's eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving him limp and entirely at the creature's mercy. Ronan narrowed his eyes. He had no time for tactics.

The prince lunged, dropping the torch and driving his trident down from the back, grazing the demon's gray hide. The metal glanced off of it with a spray of sparks, and Ronan exhaled sharply. The ok'havel's flesh was not covered in fur, as Ronan had initially assumed, but a coating of rough stone.

He took a step back, a hand flying to the wound on his side as his legs threatened to give out. The ok'havel dropped Shivaroth, who landed in a heap on the sodden ground. His hair, heavy with water and matted with blood, fanned out around him.

His eyes did not open.

The demon turned on Ronan, and his mouth fell open as he laid eyes on its face. It had needlepoint teeth that jutted out at odd angles, and eyes clustered around the front of its angular skull. Two long tusks rose from beneath its horns, curving up and putting them at the height of Ronan's chest when the thing was on all fours. He borrowed his next move from Shivaroth's playbook.

" _Ahn'vahey_ ," he whispered.

The thing charged and Ronan threw himself out of the way, catching himself against the wall. The torch, in danger of being extinguished by the water, flickered ominously. His gaze snapped to it, knowing full well that if he had to fight this thing in the dark, in its natural state, he wouldn't make it out alive. He hefted his trident, and thrust it toward the creature's eyes.

As large and clumsy as it looked, the ok'havel was quick. As soon as he moved, it lunged forward, clasping the head of the trident in its jagged teeth and tearing it from Ronan's grasp. Without both his weapon and his means of staying upright, he fell back against the wall with a yelp of pain.

His trident was thrown aside. It landed with a clatter next to the torch, which was steadily dying out, casting the cave into shadowed darkness. His eyes darted from the ok'havel to his weapon. Its eyes followed his. They both moved at the same time, with Ronan throwing himself down hard on the ground and the creature swiping a massive paw at the place where it had predicted he'd be, missing by centimeters. He grasped his trident and held its point up before him, expecting the demon to attack with renewed fury, but it pulled back with an earth-shaking growl. Ronan looked at it in surprise.

It kept to the shadows, slinking around as if it thought it was a much smaller animal. It skirted the edges of his position, where he sat breathing hard with his back against the wall. He took his eyes off it for a split second to look back at Shivaroth, who was still alarmingly unresponsive, and by the time he looked back it was still simply staring, moving neither forward nor back.

Ronan's eyes moved down to the flickering torch, and then back up to the ok'havel, where it had concealed itself in the shadows. His mouth dropped open. He understood.

Curling his other hand around the discarded torch, he raised it up and saw the demon duck its head to hide its eyes. The darkness that Ronan had been so worried about had turned out to be a double-edged sword—the ok'havel was used to the darkness, but sensitive to light.

He stood, leaning on his trident, and walked forward, holding the torch out in front of him. The creature took a step back for each one of his steps forward, hissing when the glint of the flames happened to catch its eyes. Ronan shook his head, incredulous.

"Get back," he shouted for good measure, thrusting the torch forward. "Back!" The creature obeyed, slinking into one of the darkened tunnels. Ronan edged closer to Shivaroth, moving slowly, body trembling with effort.

Ronan could still see the ok'havel's eyes in the darkness. He looked away, sinking clumsily to his knees beside Shivaroth and propping the torch up against the cave wall, praying it wouldn't go out.

"Shiva," he whispered, putting a hand against the god's chest. "I need you to wake up." He could hear the ok'havel breathing. He shuddered and spoke again, a renewed desperation in his words. "Shivaroth, please." Ronan tentatively slid a hand to the back of his head, the sickening thud of Shivaroth's skull hitting the stone all too fresh in his mind. His fingers came away wet with blood, and his grip tightened around the cloth of Shivaroth's coat. He stirred at Ronan's touch.

The god came to slowly, first with a hiss of pain and then a twitch of his hands. His eyes opened, half-lidded, and struggled to focus on Ronan's own. It took him a moment before he was able to speak.

"How..." Shivaroth trailed off, as if forgetting what he had been saying mid-sentence. "I..?"

"Do you remember where we are?"

"Mines," Shivaroth murmured. "I went to...find the exit." His brow furrowed. "You were not supposed to follow."

"You ran into trouble," Ronan explained. "I helped."

"An ok'havel."

"Yes."

Shivaroth winced, then tried to push himself up. Ronan flattened his hand against his chest and kept him down with a stern glare.

"Give yourself a bit of time. You were out for a few minutes."

"Where is the—"

"Still here," Ronan said darkly. "I didn't kill it, just held it off." Shivaroth turned his head with a groan, eyes landing on the torch.

"Ah," he breathed. "I am glad you figured it out. I dropped the torch before I had a chance to use it." Ronan nodded, picking up Shivaroth's fallen scimitar and using it to slice off the right sleeve of his shirt. The god watched him with dull eyes, breathing gingerly.

"Where are you hurt?"

"Ribs," he said slowly. "Chest. Nothing broken, I think. Head, but you know that. I forgot how breakable mortals are." He frowned. "Your bones shatter so easily." Ronan snorted, tearing his sleeve into strips.

"I'm glad to hear you've put so much thought into our fragility." He turned his head, glancing back over his shoulder to be sure the ok'havel hadn't advanced. It remained on the outskirts of the cavern, pacing in anticipation. Ronan eyed it for a moment, looking back at Shivaroth when the god grasped his wrist.

"Help me sit up," he breathed. "Please." Ronan obliged, putting the cloth strips down on his knee and sliding his arm beneath Shivaroth's shoulders, wincing as the wound in his side pulled. Shivaroth put his hands against the ground to support himself, and Ronan released him once he was sure the god was steady. Shivaroth put a hand to the back of his head and winced.

"I did not intend to get us into this mess," Shivaroth whispered. "I should have listened to you."

"So we could have stayed down and both been attacked? You don't need to apologize, just make sure you stay upright long enough to get us out of here." Shivaroth's lips tugged into a tired smile.

"I will try."

"Good."

He picked up a strip of fabric and waited for Shivaroth's nod of consent before he began to push the god's hair away from the wound. They would have to find bandages later, but for the time being Ronan's hastily tied cloth would have to do the trick. Shivaroth's hair fell over it awkwardly, but neither of them paid it any mind. Both exhausted and injured, they looked at the ok'havel, who stood blocking the only way out that was not the way they had come.

"We can't fight it." Ronan exhaled heavily as he leaned back against the wall beside Shivaroth. "What do we do?"

"We..." Shivaroth glanced at the torch. "We push forth."

"And are we sure that will work?"

"Not at all." Ronan didn't point out that Shivaroth's words were slurring together—it was simply another point on an increasingly long list that made it clear that they needed to get out as soon as they could.

Shivaroth took his scimitar and pushed himself to his feet, putting a hand against the chilled stone wall to steady himself. Ronan passed him the torch after Shivaroth had sheathed his blade and took the hand that was offered to him, grabbing his trident as he rose.

The two stared the ok'havel dead in the eyes.

It knew it was stronger than them—it had already crippled one and cornered the other, it could easily do so again. It also knew that if it got too close to the flame, it would be blinded, and its enemies would have the advantage. It would bide its time. It would wait.

Leaning against each other, both unsteady and weak, they made their way forward. It must have been an hour of walking with the ok'havel trailing steadily behind them before Ronan's eyes widened and he motioned for them to stop.

"Do you feel that?" His voice was hoarse from disuse, and he coughed harshly at the cold air that stung his throat upon inhaling. Shivaroth raised his head, an odd look on his face that soon turned into realization, then tentative hope.

"Wind." Shivaroth whispered. His hair blew back from his face as if the elements themselves were greeting him.

"Wind," Ronan confirmed. They looked at each other, bloodied and bruised, shaken and exhausted. Smiles crept over their faces.

They pushed on, feet dragging and breathing ragged, following the gentle breeze that turned into a biting gale as they moved forward. They were on the right track. Winter was ahead. The open sky. The sensation of the wind on his skin was so unlike the moisture-heavy air that had been pressing him down that a grin came to his lips.

Almost there. Almost out. Almost free.

His mind returned to Illirium, to the horrors his presence had inflicted upon the city and its people. With guilt heavier than the weight of the stone above them, he forcefully pushed the thoughts from his mind.

That was war, he told himself, not for the first time. His hand was not the one that brought down the blade on Illirium, nor was it Rhydel's. This was the cunning work of the pantheon; of Aevar. He was sure of it.

"Ronan," Shivaroth said breathlessly. "Look."

Before them were two tunnels—the one to their right was blocked off by a collapsed beam, but the one on the left was bathed in a sliver of light. It was not the red-orange of the torch, but the harsh white of the winter sun. The ok'havel was behind them, growing more agitated the closer its quarry got to freedom.

"Thank the gods," Ronan murmured. They picked up the pace as the ok'havel began to growl. The light grew steadily brighter, until the widening tunnel they walked was lit up enough to make out vague details. As Ronan opened his mouth to say something, the ok'havel roared. He felt the sound at the base of his spine, deep and horrible—he abandoned his hold on Shivaroth in favor of spinning around with his trident readied, and that's when it happened.

Shivaroth, unsteady with the sudden lack of support, staggered. His fingers slipped from the torch. The flame that had endured so much landed first, and was extinguished with a hiss in a shallow puddle. The passage went dark, and Ronan went cold.

"Run," Shivaroth said softly. Then, when Ronan didn't move, he grabbed him by the wrist and pushed him forward, so Ronan was positioned in front of him. "Go!"

Ronan didn't hesitate. He ran, his feet hitting the ground with an uneven gait. He could have cared less about the wound in his side—he knew whatever the ok'havel had in store for them was much worse than the point of a Rhydellan blade.

Shivaroth ran beside him, scimitar drawn and readied. He set his jaw, skidding around a corner and covering his eyes as the cave was lit up by the light of the sun. It rose high over the mountains, illuminating the snow and the sky, nearly blinding him. It was a morning he had not thought he would live to see. He heard a screech from the ok'havel but didn't stop running until Shivaroth yelped and grabbed a strap on the back of his armor, hauling him back. As Ronan's eyes adjusted, he saw that his feet rested half-off the edge of a steep drop.

They stood on a shelf of stone halfway up the mountainside. A set of carved stairs led down from their position, and when Ronan turned back, he saw that the ok'havel had retreated back to the shadows, its eyes narrowed and hateful. Ronan glared at it.

"Not today," he hissed, but his words were directed up, at the pantheon of gods that sat waiting for the day he would fall dead at their feet. He said it again, softer. "Not today."

Shivaroth had leaned back against the face of the mountain, breathing heavily. Ronan hesitated before he walked forward and drew the taller man into a strong embrace. The god stood still for a moment, his arms stiffening, before he returned the gesture, putting his arms around Ronan's shoulders and resting his chin against the top of Ronan's head. Shivaroth's fingers were icy and his coat was near-ruined from dirt and blood, but he only held on tighter, the memory of the death-prayer still fresh in his mind.

"We made it."

"We did," Shivaroth murmured. "And now we must continue." Ronan released him and stepped back, surveying the long staircase ahead of them. Visible a few miles away was the sea, with low buildings lining the coastline and tall black ships in the harbor.

"There." Ronan pointed. "Llyran." Shivaroth followed his finger, taking in the jagged landscape that gradually smoothed as it reached the water.

"Do you think we can make it there by nightfall?"

The sun was low in the east, still rising. The day was young.

"Yes," Ronan said. He grimaced. "Though I fear if we make any stops, we won't be getting up after."

Shivaroth nodded. "We will continue, then."

Ronan moved tentatively closer to the edge of the shelf, looking down at the base of the mountain. There were tents set up to the south, flying the red flag of Rhydel, and the distant figures of troops trudging through the snow. No one was stationed at the bottom of their escape route, and he breathed a sigh of relief. They had a straight shot to Llyran.

Ronan limped toward the staircase, the bottom of his trident ringing out against the stone. He locked eyes with Shivaroth, who despite looking pained and dazed had straightened up. Their minds were both reeling from the events of the night—from the fights, the war, the mines. They had been through it all and made it out—for the first time in a long while, Ronan felt a glimmer of hope. If they had made it through that, perhaps Acaeus and Wynne had been just as lucky. He gave Shivaroth a tired smile.

"Let's move out."


	9. IX. Vok'Xi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A FAN FAVORITE ARRIVES AND THE AUTHOR TRIES VALIANTLY NOT TO SHOW ANY BIAS!!!

"Hold steady!" A woman's voice rang out and Ronan ducked his head, ignoring the shouts from those walking in front of them.

He and Shivaroth had gotten away from the mountain with relative ease, and fallen in with a caravan travelling the east highway. Merchants and refugees from Illirium walked beside them, some with belongings on their backs and others empty-handed, looking as worn and bloodied as they did. The pain and terror around them was tangible.

He had been right about the mortality rate, the last thing he had wanted to predict correctly. There were very few people walking beside them, and those that had made it out looked haunted and hardly spoke. Even as Llyran became visible on the horizon through the light haze of snow and fog, spirits were low and everyone kept to themselves. No one spared he or Shivaroth any second glances, which he was grateful for.

There was no sign of Wynne or Acaeus.

He knew the reality of what they faced, the risk of it, the sacrifices that would have to be made. Foolishly, though, he'd imagined they'd have more time. His death date was set in stone, already decided, but the ones around him were free of that burden, unmarked by prophecy. In his mind, they had a chance to continue on after this mess of a war, and live unconcerned. No matter how hopeless, he kept looking. Maybe they'd made it after all.

He had to believe that was so. He couldn't allow himself to think that Acaeus died with Ronan's betrayal still sharp in his mind, or that Wynne had not seen her wife again before the life left her. If he did, if he gave the treacherous thoughts any ground, he wouldn't be able to go a step farther.

Ronan's vision blurred. He stumbled. Before he could react, Shivaroth caught one of his arms and a stranger caught the other, keeping him upright and holding him steady until he was able to keep moving. The stranger met Ronan's eyes and gave him a solemn nod before disappearing back into the crowd.

"Easy," Shivaroth said. "Not much longer."

"I'm..." Ronan stared blankly at the spot the stranger had stood. "I'm tired."

"I know." Shivaroth's bare feet provided a startling contrast against the snow.

Ronan's brow furrowed, his mind unable to focus on a single topic.

"Are your feet alright?"

"My..?" Shivaroth glanced down and gave a weak chuckle. "The cold will not harm me. You do not need to worry."

"It's not uncomfortable?" An odd conversation for small talk, perhaps, but Ronan's own feet were dragging, and Shivaroth tugged one of Ronan's arms over his shoulders, letting the prince lean against his side.

"I prefer it," Shivaroth murmured, voice soothing. "I find shoes uncomfortable. My feet rarely touched the ground in Serenvah, but when they did, I enjoyed the feeling of the moss beneath my skin." A faraway look came over his eyes. "Aevar wore armor whenever he visited. He would leave heavy footprints, while I left none at all." Ronan looked up as Shivaroth spoke. It was rare for him to bring up other members of the pantheon, but whenever he did, an intriguing quality came about him.

"Did Aevar visit often?"

"He used to visit every evening." A flicker of a smile crossed the god's lips. "I would wait for him. He would sing, occasionally, and he would ask me to join him. I always enjoyed that." Ronan dropped his eyes.

"I'm sorry you lost him," he said.

"I am sorry you did not know him before this," Shivaroth replied. His face was framed by the stark white and gray of the Adacian landscape. "I used to love him, you know. He was my brother."

"I know," Ronan whispered.

"We travelled to the edges of Feihjelm with only our blades and my lute. He would sing to keep the perils of the night at bay and I would watch his back while he slept. We were unstoppable, Aevar and I." Shivaroth's face slackened. His fingers curled into his palm.

"I do not know what happened. Truly, I do not. But something changed in him, Ronan. I promise you he was not always like this. He was not always—"

Shivaroth bit his lip.

"He was not always so cruel."

Ronan couldn't picture Shivaroth's Aevar. Stoic, strong, a protector rather than a destroyer. Someone who would sing and follow and treat another as an equal. The only Aevar he knew was an unstoppable force of violence, one with a twisted grin and wild hair and a hunter's eyes.

"I believe you."

Shivaroth looked at the people around them and ran a shaking hand through his hair.

"I should have stopped this."

"You couldn't have," Ronan said dimly, having had that same conversation with himself many times. "There's nothing you could have done."

"If I had been with Aevar—"

"You were effectively dead when Aevar marked me, Shivaroth. There's nothing you could have done." He repeated the last words in a stern tone. It was useless to put the blame on someone that wasn't involved.

They fell silent, Shivaroth lost in thought and Ronan focused on the increasingly difficult task of putting one foot in front of the other, resulting in a corpse-like cloudiness in his eyes and a sheen of sweat on his brow. Llyran wasn't far, he kept reminding himself. It wasn't far. He listed to the side. Shivaroth tightened his grip on Ronan's arm, keeping him steady.

"I can carry you," he said, though the offer was much less convincing than it had been back in Illirium. Shivaroth's shoulders hadn't been hunched so far over in exhaustion, then.

"You're hurt too," Ronan murmured. "No use in straining yourself. It won't be much longer now."

The shouts from the caravan leaders continued.

"Heads up! March!"

"Not long now!"

"Stand tall!"

They were being spoken to like they were an army rather than a group of merchants, some of whom were no older than sixteen. Sorrow came over him unbidden. Even they were expecting an attack. Even they knew the danger plaguing Adacia.

It had only been six days since they had left the mountains, and already Ronan had seen the multifaceted aspects of the war. The distrust, the terror, the pain. The other side, too; strangers helping others without looking for anything in return, an understanding of the plight of those that walked beside them, the unwavering resolve to stay alive. War had changed his people since he'd left Adacia Proper—he didn't know what to make of what he saw.

A wagon full of bloodied cloth and injured people passed them. Ronan watched it go, saw a young woman and an old man tending to the wounded with what little supplies they had. They were all going to Llyran, all hoping to find a brief respite. They all knew that the Rhydellan gaze would likely turn next to the small port city and the Queen's Fleet, but there was a childish glimmer of hope in his chest. The Esadonian soldiers had what Illirium never had the luxury of—a warning. The stream of refugees would be enough to alert them of danger, and Ronan had no doubt that they would be readied for battle under Zia's command.

"They have a guard posted."

Ronan looked up at Shivaroth's words, eyes scanning the entrance to the city that lay ahead. There were soldiers clad in the black and bronze armor of the Esadonian forces, who bore the queen's winged crest on their chestplates.

"Good."

An odd feeling came over him, and he detached himself from Shivaroth's hold, walking over to the nearest guard, who looked at him with a hint of barely concealed pity.

"Do you need something, civilian?"

Ronan nodded. "Is Queen Tentras with the fleet?"

The soldier's expression quickly turned guarded.

"Who wants to know?"

"Ronan Aldrea." The guard's eyebrows shot up. He looked back over Ronan's shoulder, where Shivaroth stood patiently behind him.

"Bullshit," he said. Ronan's lips twitched in what would have been a smile, and he pulled his collar down to reveal the blood-red eye of Aevar at his throat. The guard cursed. Only one person alive carried that mark: the lost prince of the Adacian throne.

"Respectfully, Your Highness, what in the name of the Three are you doing here?"

"Looking for your queen."

The soldier bit his lip, considering his options. He finally sighed and settled on something.

"She's commanding the fleet."

"Does she leave soon?"

"Not unless things go south. She's no coward, but she knows that she's more use to Adacia alive." Ronan's brow furrowed.

"Why did she come in the first place?"

"I'm not high enough up to know, sire." The soldier looked him up and down. "Do you need an escort into the city?"

Ronan shook his head. The last thing they needed was more attention. "No, thank you." He paused. "Where can I find Zia?"

"On the docks. You can't miss her." Ronan offered a quiet word of thanks before he turned back to Shivaroth and started walking. The god glanced over at him, eyes searching, but didn't speak. They were through the gates of the town moments later.

Llyran was a small, tired city—its buildings were wood and stone, its doors and windows shut and latched, its streets muddied and strewn with debris that had been dropped by the influx of outsiders. But while the houses were locked and silent, the streets were alive. People had abandoned shops and safety in favor of setting up tents for the wounded and sick, and Esadonian soldiers were carrying supplies in from the docks.

Ronan squared his jaw. War was ugly. It brought death and suffering and horrible, inescapable injustice. But to the survivors, it brought something else: solidarity. He had faith that they would get through this, then, as he watched the young assist the elderly and the rich assist the poor. They were capable of coming together even in the thick of things. This would be Adacia's saving grace.

"Where are the docks?" Shivaroth asked.

"Straight down this road." Ronan had only been to Llyran on the occasion that he was visiting Esadon—the port had a straight shot to the other island. He remembered the layout from his youth, though not as clearly as he would have liked. He heard shouts from the docks, voices fighting to be heard over the biting winds and the rising storm.

They crested a hill, and Ronan sighed with relief. Tall black galleons sat tethered to the docks, their sails lowered and their masts scraping the clouds. A gold figurehead adorned the most extravagant one—a winged woman with her hand extended toward the sky.

"That's Zia's ship," he whispered. "The _Vok'Xi_. The Thrice-Blessed."

The docks were teeming with black-armored soldiers. Voices were raised. No one had stopped to watch; most were headed for the entrance to the city with clothes and food, looking to provide aid. Ronan continued forward, hissing through gritted teeth as his vision blurred.

"Ronan, sit down."

"We—" his voice broke. He tore his hand from Shivaroth's when the god reached for it. "We're too close to rest now." His words wavered. "Too close." Shivaroth sighed, watching as Ronan struggled toward the docks through the crowd of people going the other way. He caught up and assumed the position that had become the norm over the night—his arm around Ronan's waist, Ronan's head threatening to fall against his shoulder, one of the prince's hands curled in the god's frost-brushed coat.

"At least take it slow," Shivaroth murmured. "We may be in a hurry, but I doubt passing out at the queen's feet will aid either of our causes."

Ronan's jaw set in determination. His shoulders squared. Shivaroth picked up his pace as Ronan did, shaking his head.

"I honestly cannot tell if you do these things to spite me," he muttered.

"Not you," Ronan replied breathlessly. "Don't think I can keep going for much longer. We need to hurry."

Shivaroth, upon seeing the pain and feverish haze that had settled over Ronan's face, nodded.

"Alright," he assented. "Lead the way."

Ronan's remaining strength was rapidly failing. He was no fool—he had felt that blade pierce him, go in one side and out the other. He knew it hit something vital, and he knew that if Shivaroth hadn't healed whatever internal damage that had been done when he had, he would be dead ten times over. His organs may have been intact, but the entrance and exit wounds still bled. Ronan had no idea how he was still on his feet other than pure strength of will.

His feet hit the ancient wooden docks with a hollow thud. The angry gray of the sea roiled beneath them. Snow and wind battered his face, but he kept his head up, his eyes scanning the crowd. Zia was here, she was unharmed, she was safe. He needed to find her before Aevar did.

"Steady, now!" A raised voice stood out among the others, commanding respect and radiating power. "Steady!" Ronan's head snapped to its source, a young woman with her back to them and her hands directing the path of the troops leaving the galleon. Her hair, dark and curled, blew back in the wind, giving Ronan the glimpse of her face that he needed.

Dark skin. Sharp eyes. A scar curling over her left cheekbone. A gold locket he had seen so many times as a child, containing a lock of her mother's hair. Ronan pushed away from Shivaroth with wide eyes.

"Zia!"

The woman turned, her lips parted in surprise at the cry and her eyes alight with recognition. The two stared at each other through the crowd before Zia whispered something to a woman at her right and pushed through those that stood before her, turning heads that she paid no attention to. When she was free of the crowd, past the last obstacle that had stood before them, she opened her mouth to speak. Finding no words, she surged forward and threw her arms around Ronan's shoulders, her hold desperate. He shut his eyes and bit his lip, unashamed at the tears that slid down his cheeks.

"Ronan," she finally whispered, pulling back but keeping her hold on his arms, unwilling to let go. "I—" her voice broke, and she raised a hand to his face, wiping the tears away. "Thank the Three."

Shivaroth hung back, training his eyes on the sea. The crowd parted around them. Those on dock had resumed their work, giving them their privacy. Ronan's bloodied hand took one of Zia's, and they held each other tightly, silently.

"I thought you were dead," Zia breathed. "I'd received word that you had been seen in Illirium with Wynne and Acaeus, and when I heard what had happened there—" she looked over his shoulder, looking for the others. When she looked back at Ronan, a dark realization had come over her face. She looked him up and down, studying his glassy eyes and the trail of blood that ran down the front of his armor. His hair was tangled, his hands scraped, his freckled skin muddied. She exhaled heavily.

"Did they make it?"

"I don't know," Ronan whispered. "I have no idea." Zia's face fell.

"How did you escape? What happened?"

"I'm sure you heard what the Rhydellans did. Plunging the place into darkness." Zia nodded in confirmation. "We had all split up before then. I made my way to Shivaroth, and we got out through the mines." He left out the details—the sword that had pierced his abdomen, the ok'havel they'd faced in the caves. It would come up another time. Zia's eyes widened.

"Shivaroth? As in—"

Upon hearing the topic of conversation turn to him, Shivaroth moved from the edge of the dock and walked forward to stand at Ronan's side.

"The Dreamweaver," Shivaroth said softly. "Yes." Zia's eyes flew from Ronan to Shivaroth. She raised her eyebrows.

"You will have to explain this turn of events at some point, you know." Zia turned to the prince. "But that point is not now. This—" she gestured to his injuries. "Will not do."

"Straight to business, then?" Ronan said with a wry smile. Zia chuckled.

"If that business is making sure you don't die on my watch, then yes." Her eyes darkened, losing their glimmer of humor. "Let's get you on the _Vok'Xi_. We can talk about what comes next after you're patched up." What she didn't say was what they were both thinking—she didn't speak the names of Wynne and Acaeus, who as far as either of them knew, had never made it to Llyran. She didn't continue to question Shivaroth's presence, as she saw the way Ronan made sure to walk with his arm pressed against his, unwilling to be any farther away, as if he were afraid that if they were not touching, one of them would disappear. They had gone through something together that had changed things. She would not pry. Not then.

A few bolder soldiers shot glances at them as they made the trek down the docks toward the ship with the golden masthead. They locked on Ronan's bloodied, tear-streaked face, on the god that had been battered and broken as if he was mortal, and on the queen that stood tall beside them both. They were an odd, mismatched trio. Ronan was certain that if it hadn't been for the circumstances at hand, they would have never come together to begin with.

They boarded the ship with relative ease—Ronan pulled his collar back up to hide Aevar's mark, but kept his head up. It had been nearly a year since there had been people around to recognize him, since he had to act the part of the ruler. He had almost forgotten how, but he knew enough to put on an air of strength. He would not fall when there were eyes to see it.

The woman Zia had spoken to on the docks had followed them up. Zia turned to her then, a calm resolve sweeping over her.

"Reya."

"Yes?"

"Prepare to pull the ships out of the harbor. Sail back to Esadon once you are certain Llyran is safe from Rhydel. I'm needed here." To Ronan's surprise, the older woman didn't try to protest, didn't remind Zia that the Circle was a secondary concern. She simply nodded and fixed her queen with a knowing smile.

"Beat the odds," she said with a wink, bowing to Zia before she started the short walk back to the docks. By the time Zia had opened her mouth to respond, Reya had disappeared.

Ronan's wide eyes turned back to Zia as she led them into the captain's quarters, a small room set beneath the upper deck where the helm rested. As soon as the door shut behind them, he spoke.

"You're coming with us?"

"That's why you're here, isn't it?" Zia rifled around in a drawer for a moment before she pulled out a copious amount of bandages.

"I..." Ronan trailed off. "Yes. It is. I suppose part of me expected you to turn us away."

"I wouldn't let you face this alone, you know that." Zia stuck her head out the door and called for something that Ronan didn't catch. There was an affirming reply, and Zia left the door ajar.

"They'll find you some dry clothes and the rest of what we'll need to patch you up." Zia eyed them as Shivaroth began to unclasp Ronan's armor, letting the prince lean against him. Her eyes lingered on the silver-white scars on the god's hands, long and reaching, that trailed up to his forearms.

"Were there any signs of Rhydellan forces headed this way?"

Ronan shook his head and Shivaroth pulled the chestplate off, setting it to the side. As his legs threatened to give out, Zia guided him into a chair.

"None. They were clustered by the base of Illirium when I saw them last. I wouldn't be surprised if they headed this way, though. Many people in Illirium were of the mind that it was the fleet drawing attention." Zia's face turned grim at his words.

"That's what I feared. I'm glad they're holding back for now—maybe they sustained more casualties than we expected."

Shivaroth sat down on the floor a few feet away from Ronan's chair. He watched as the god's slender fingers came up to untie the makeshift bandage around his head, and Ronan winced when he saw how much blood had soaked into it.

"Gods," Zia said, eyes widening. "Are you—"

"I will be alright," Shivaroth said, a note of exhaustion in his words. He shut his eyes while he spoke. "I heal faster than a mortal would. It should only take a day or so before the wound is closed."

"Bandage it anyway," Ronan murmured. "Better to be safe than to have a repeat of the caves."

"Yes. I suppose it is. If you have the resources," he said, turning his head to Zia, "I can take care of this myself." Zia nodded, and passed him a roll of bandages. He set to work on parting his hair. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in." Zia didn't look up as the soldier entered.

"The supplies you requested, my queen."

Ronan gave the soldier a thankful nod. She carried a bucket of water and a cloth in one hand, and simple black clothes, identical to her own standard sailing attire, in the other. She set them down on a table and bowed to Zia, then Ronan.

"Thank you," Zia said when the soldier was halfway out the door. The warmth in her voice was tinged with distraction. Ronan began to take off his shirt with a wince, pulling it over his head with shaking hands. Both Zia and Shivaroth seemed to pale when they saw the mess that was his torso.

The bandages had been all but torn off—they were crimson with fresh blood and hung loose about his waist, disturbed, no doubt, by his dash through the mines. Ronan moved unsteadily, reaching down with the intent to untie them, but Shivaroth reached them first, moving from his position on the floor. His fingers worked deftly to unwind them, and he endured Ronan's muffled curse as he pulled them away from the wound.

It was worse now that he could see it in the light. The injury itself had been a clean shot in and out, but it was long and open, jagged near the edges where the skin had torn. The area around it was mottled with bruising and slick with blood. A wave of nausea came over him, and he looked away. Shivaroth muttered a curse.

"I am sorry I was not there to stop this," he whispered.

Ronan shook his head. "Don't be."

Zia hauled the bucket from the table and placed it and the cloth on the floor before Ronan's chair. She glanced at Shivaroth.

"Do you want to do this, or should I?"

"I will." Shivaroth said. "Thank you for offering." Ronan didn't protest—by now, Shivaroth's hands were anything but foreign. He dipped the cloth in the water and murmured a quick apology to Ronan before he began to wipe away the blood.

Ronan's fingers tightened harshly on the arms of the chair, his nails digging into the wood. A raw, pained sound was dragged out from between gritted teeth, and he shut his eyes as if it would protect him from the agony. His face grew unbearably hot, and when he opened his eyes, his vision flared white. Shivaroth seemed to know what was happening before he did, and one of his hands shot out to grab Ronan's bare shoulder before he could slump forward.

"Ronan," he said sternly. "Focus on me." His voice was nearly lost behind the shrill ringing in his ears. "Just a bit longer, and then my magic will replenish itself. I can fix this, you just have to be strong until then. Can you do that?" Ronan's eyes began to clear, and he ignored the white spots that danced over his vision. The feverish feeling didn't leave him, but he nodded, keeping his mouth firmly shut against the nausea.

"Good," Shivaroth said, dipping the cloth once more in the water. "You are doing well. I am almost finished." Zia watched them from across the room, silent. Ronan's eyes, half-lidded, locked with hers. She offered him a sad smile before the faraway look returned to her eyes. Desperate to subvert his panicked thoughts as Shivaroth began to clean the exit wound, he wondered what she was thinking.

"Zia?" His voice was hoarse. She answered the question without it ever being asked—it seemed she still knew him better than he knew himself, even after a year and a half apart.

"If we need to get out of the city undetected, there are a few routes we could take. Where are we headed?"

Ronan bit his lip, stifling a cry between gritted teeth.

"Not sure," he managed. "We can't go anywhere without Wynne or Acaeus."

"We can't go back to Illirium to check if they—if they're—" Zia didn't finish. "We can't go back. The city will be overrun with soldiers and strewn with bodies. Even if we were able to fight our way in and get out alive, there's no way we could look through everyone. Not in the dark, not in the time we have. It would take weeks."

"Were there that many casualties?" Ronan was breathless. He knew the answer, he had only seen flashes of the battle, yet he knew. He'd watched. He'd heard.

"More," Zia said grimly. "I'm sorry, Ronan."

Shivaroth dried the site of the wound, wincing as more blood began to trickle from it. He grabbed the roll of bandages and looked at Ronan's torso with a calculating eye. "Do we have time to do stitches?"

Zia considered his question. "I'm not sure. It all depends on Rhydel's schedule at this point—we're at their mercy. It's up to you, Ro."

A paranoid shudder ran through him, and he shook his head. "No time. We need to get out of here as soon as we can. Bring the supplies for later, do what you must, but Llyran is the first place they're going to look for survivors, and if they find out that I'm not among the dead—"

Zia's eyes widened. "You think they were there for you?"

"Aevar has been trailing us, Zia. He took Solthorne, then the Reach. We stayed in Illirium to rest for a few days, and then Illirium fell." He leaned forward in his seat. He knew he couldn't look terribly convincing, bloodied and trembling as he was, but he didn't care. "That can't be a coincidence. It's too well-timed."

"There was a presence in that city," Shivaroth muttered in confirmation, not raising his head from where he was wrapping the bandages around Ronan's waist. He gently pushed on his shoulder so the prince would straighten back up. "Powerful. Deadly."

"And it wasn't someone from Rhydel?" Zia's fingers were gripping the edge of the desk she leaned on.

"Mortals do not give off that kind of aura." Shivaroth secured the bandages with gentle fingers, then stood up and wiped the remainder of the blood on his pants. "I could not tell you with full certainty that it was him, but none in the pantheon give off that much bloodlust. That was either a god or a very, very powerful demon."

Shivaroth offered Ronan a hand, which he took after a moment of hesitation. The god slowly pulled him from the chair, mindful of his dizziness, and waited for a moment to make sure he was steady before letting go and passing Ronan one of the clean shirts. He accepted it, sliding the dark cloth over his hands and shoulders, eyes catching on the half-moons of dried blood beneath his nails.

"So," Zia muttered. "You didn't think to mention that the reason you've showed up stabbed and half-dead is that there's a god after you? One that has expressed a specific desire for the taste of your blood for no discernible reason? By the Three, Ronan. Lead with that next time." She shook her head. "The gods haven't walked Ishtel since—well—" she locked eyes with Shivaroth, sizing him up. "Since you, I suppose. Do I want to know how you came to be here?"

Shivaroth met Ronan's eyes. Most of the fear had dissipated. Ronan wondered if he had realized the impermanence of their pact—he had said it would last until one of them died, and it wouldn't surprise Ronan if the reason he had become so calm was because the reality of his situation had been made apparent: Ronan would be dead soon, one way or another. Shivaroth would be released. An uneasy feeling came over him, then. He wondered if his suspicions were accurate.

"That is a story that has yet to explain itself to me," Shivaroth said finally, intently studying the mounting anxiety on Ronan's face. "Even so, it is not terribly important at the moment."

Though Zia looked slightly disappointed at the refusal, she let it go. There was an urgency in the air that none of them could explain, but all could feel—surrounded by soldiers, on a boat ready to depart from the harbor the moment the need arose, they all felt as though something was wrong. As if there was some threat that loomed over their shoulder, waiting until they closed their eyes to strike.

"We need to go," he said finally. There were nods of agreement. No one wanted to stay longer than they had to. Zia grabbed a bag, opening a cabinet and shoving in what food, bandages, and clothes it could carry.

"We'll leave out the north exit. There's an alley that'll take us out and put us parallel to the east highway. If we get out of the city without issue, we can decide where to go from there." Zia's voice was steady; she was using the tone of a queen. Ronan knew what she was doing, he had done it himself back when he was the crown prince and not a vagrant fleeing from fate.

Put on the voice of royalty, as his father had once told him, and you could convince those around you that you are stronger than you are. Zia was strong—undoubtedly stronger than he was—but he could see in her eyes that she was frightened. She had not expected this when the diplomatic invitation to the Circle had been extended. She had known it was coming, but Ronan knew that up until the past year, none of it had seemed real.

Now, standing in a room with a half-dead prince and a god, he couldn't imagine what she was thinking. He felt a pang of guilt. He wished he could have avoided bringing her into this, but he knew that at the end of the day, she would have been furious if he hadn't. Her place was in battle, she'd said so herself years ago when they had sat unburdened by the weight that adulthood had brought, with their feet dipped in the sea and their families whispering about marriage behind their backs. They were not fools—even at nine, and they had known that they were being considered as the other's match. Zia had leaned over and confided that she wanted nothing more than to be a soldier of the all-female Eastern Tribes of Esadon, able to fight anything and travel anywhere. Ronan was positive that this was still a dream of hers. She'd trained extensively in their ways of battle, and there were a few, including Reya, that bore the markings of the Eastern Tribes aboard the ships.

He hoped she would make it out of this. Begged the gods that she would, though his faith had faltered and died out years ago. Shivaroth looked over as he repeated two words in his mind, projecting them to whatever gods would listen, a prayer of preservation that this time was not for himself.

" _Khatra'sha_."Spare her. Shivaroth locked eyes with him, dipped his head low. He had heard.

"You two ready?" He and Shivaroth looked up. Zia stood by the door, carrying no weapon but needing none; she fought with the hand-to-hand style of the warriors that had raised her. Shivaroth shook out his coat, leaving a glittering film of frost and snow on the ground around him. He nodded. Ronan picked up his trident and took a deep breath, accepting Shivaroth's arm as it was offered, both of them seeming to relax as they returned to their resting point.

Ronan had a flash of sorrow—he wished they could have stayed longer. His fingers were loose where they had curled around Shivaroth's wrist, and his eyes moved with a sluggish drag. While the moment of respite had done him some good, he was still dead tired. He steeled himself.

"Ready."

Zia pushed open the door to the rest of the ship. Sailors had returned to their stations, ready to depart when the order was given. The soldiers all stood on the docks, taking orders from a woman that stood on a worn wooden box, standing a few feet taller than the rest. Zia, upon locking eyes with Reya across the deck, called something to her in Esadonian. Reya raised a hand in response, nodding to her with deep, unbridled respect. Zia bit her lip and turned back as they walked down to the docks. Ronan lowered his gaze.

Zia had people she was leaving behind, Wynne had her wife who had taken shelter in the center of Adacia, Acaeus had a sister off in one of the Ravenpledged camps, and Shivaroth had the pantheon. They were all leaving people they cared about except for him—the only people he had any ties to at that point were by his side. It was almost sickeningly selfish. He turned his head away from those beside him, ignoring Shivaroth's questioning gaze.

"This way," Zia called, slipping through the crowd so she could take the lead. She walked between two of the taller buildings in the port town, her cloak hiding her armor and letting her pass half-concealed through the shadows. The further along in their journey they got, the more conspicuous they became. They must have been the oddest trio to grace Llyran's ports in over a century—a god in a patchwork coat, the prince of a fallen kingdom, and a queen with eyes that struck like a snake.

Ronan and Shivaroth followed silently. This part of Llyran was deserted—merchants had left their stalls full of rotting fruit and snow-covered bolts of cloth, piles of blankets lay where beggars had abandoned them, and some houses had their doors hanging crooked on their hinges. Ronan's unease grew.

"What happened here?" He breathed, looking up to see more of the same—torn clotheslines, broken windows. Zia shrugged.

"I'm not sure. It happened before we got here. The townspeople told us that a few weeks back, everyone left in the middle of the night, and one of the ships was gone in the morning." Ronan shuddered. If times were that desperate, he'd hate to see what had become of the people who had lived here.

"Zia." She glanced over her shoulder at him as they walked. "Thank you for bringing aid."

"Of course." She sighed. "The Adacian forces have no leadership and no hope. I thought we could lend a hand."

Ronan winced. "After all this is over, they'll have leadership one way or another. Whether that's by my hand or Rhydel's remains to be seen." He ran a hand through his hair. "I shouldn't have left them."

"No," Zia said. "You shouldn't have. But that's in the past, and you define yourself by what you do in the present. If you have regrets, choose the better option next time you have the chance." She shrugged. "It's always up to you."

Ronan nodded, then fell silent. His mind was racing, caught up in politics and what-ifs and the heap of mistakes he had made as a ruler. Most of his people thought he was dead—it was one thing to be inattentive, but it was another to be secluded up in the mountains, hiding from the war and the gods and Fate itself. Wynne would have said it was wise in the long run—if he had stayed in Adacia Proper he would have died, and he would be more use to his people alive. Acaeus would have said he would follow Ronan wherever he needed him to go, and only admit in delicate terms if Ronan pried that he thought running was the wrong choice. Ronan thought it was cowardly. Zia thought it was foolish. He spared a glance at Shivaroth, wondering where he stood.

A god had no need to consider the trivial dealings of mortals, but Shivaroth was looking more mortal by the hour. He had pulled his hair up into a bun, curls falling loose only around his face. The solitary streak of white on the left had been pulled up with the rest, making him look startlingly human. Then there was the blood, the dirt, the torn clothes. Only Shivaroth's eyes remained godly; they were full of knowledge from the time before the Great Seas, and rivalled the Void with their darkness.

If he was so close to mortal, so uncomfortably human, perhaps he had an opinion on it all. Perhaps he had fallen low enough to look, to analyze, to understand. Shivaroth glanced over at him, feeling the unmistakable sensation of eyes on him, and Ronan quickly looked away.

"We're here." Zia planted her feet, hooking her fingers into her waistband and surveying the edge of the city. The forest stood beyond, and then past that the towers of an old convent rose, collapsed and forgotten. "Where to now?"

Ronan's eyes scanned their surroundings. "Ferenheld Seat is directly north of where we are now. It'll be deserted inside—supposedly only those with true hearts may enter. There may be enemies camped around it, but if it deems us worthy, we'll be able to get in and have a moment to breathe."

"How far is it?" Zia asked.

"Can't be more than a day's journey on foot."

"We'll be cornered there."

"Not necessarily. My father showed me the blueprints—I know that place inside and out. It's connected to the tunnels that run beneath the mountains, we'd have a way out."

"So...what? Do we stay? Go?" Zia bit her lip.

He shrugged. "Ferenheld might be dangerous, but the longer we stay in the open, the closer Aevar will come."

Shivaroth nodded, an odd look in his eyes. "I say we go. No matter what that place holds for us, it will be safer than staying here."

Ronan nodded, and turned to Zia.

"Zia?"

"I'm not opposed to it. What do you think?"

He held his breath, turning his gaze toward the east highway, toward the peak of Illirium in the distance. An ache spread through his chest.

"I—" he stopped. "What about Wynne and Acaeus?"

Zia cursed and ran a hand over her face. "I mean, assuming they're alive...we should leave some kind of sign for them, right? We can't wait here. They wouldn't want you to put yourself in more danger." Tapping her foot against the frozen ground, Zia shook her head. "I'll run up to the highway, tell a soldier to alert anyone that matches their description of our location." Ronan shook his head.

"We're not splitting up."

"Well, can you hold a steady sprint?" She raised her chin as she issued the challenge, holding his gaze.

"Zia, look what happened to us. We're not splitting up."

"The road is surrounded by guards, nothing will happen to me." She took one of Ronan's hands in her own, gave him a reassuring nod, and turned toward the road. "Stay here. I'll only be a moment." Before he could protest, she took off running. Ronan, still relying on Shivaroth for support, walked forward, seeking cover in the treeline. The forest offered a shadow of protection, and he found himself relaxing slightly even as he lost sight of Zia over one of the low-rising hills.

He breathed in through his nose, the sharp smell of winter mingling with the pine. Shivaroth closed his eyes beside him, tilting his head back so that the wind blew stray curls back from his forehead. The reddish markings on his face had darkened in the shade, coming down from his hairline, passing over his eyes, curling over his jawbone. Three tear-shaped tattoos were present beside his eyes. They were beautiful, Ronan thought, unable to drag his gaze away. Most of the gods bore some marking or another, but he had always found Shivaroth's to be the most captivating.

"You are staring," Shivaroth murmured, eyes still closed. It wasn't a question. Ronan's cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly.

"There is no need to apologize." He opened his eyes, glancing down at Ronan. "I—"

There was a snap behind them, a crunch in the snow. Ronan saw the realization dawn in Shivaroth's eyes moments too late. The god wrenched himself away from Ronan, drawing his scimitar with a flourish. Ronan turned away from him, eyes wide as he searched for the source of the sound, unsteady on his feet as he readied his trident and gave up the last source of stability he had.

He exhaled like he'd been punched.

Aevar stood before him, tall, bloodied, triumphant. His eyes were fixed on Ronan, but shifted quickly to Shivaroth, who shot out a hand and gripped Ronan's wrist. He stepped back, sure Shivaroth would have a plan, would have something—

—when a gold-hilted scimitar was raised up slowly and placed against his throat. His hands fell limp. Shivaroth's hand tightened around his wrist, securing the hold he had on him, as if his blade hadn't been enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really really really love zia


	10. X. Traitor's Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fate reminds the trio that it never lost control.

"Shivaroth," Aevar said with only the slightest hint of surprise. His voice bore the same musical accent that Shivaroth's did, though his tone was gruff and sharp. "I see you finally came to your senses."

"I do not want to stand on the losing side of this war," Shivaroth muttered. He sounded pained. "I have seen what you do to those that oppose you."

"A wise decision." Aevar's calculating gaze swept Ronan's figure, and he raised his eyebrows. "I see Illirium took a toll on you."

Ronan, still reeling, spat at Aevar's feet.

"May the seas take you," he hissed.

He just had to stall until Zia got back. She could give them a chance to run, to escape. There was no way they could fight two gods. All they could do was run.

"Were you responsible for the events that brought me here?" Shivaroth sounded genuinely curious. Ronan's stomach turned violently at the ease with which the god spoke, but he remained tense and vertical in Shivaroth's grip. His eyes narrowed. _Traitor._

"I was, though I did not know who the ritual would choose to bind. I should have imagined it would be you; you have always had a strange bond with the boy. It may have been wiser if he had chosen Felhan or Eltirash, but the mortal's subconscious made its decision, and it got us here." A sickening grin spread over his lips. "I will not complain."

"He had a hand in the decision?"

"Not in any way he could influence. I was the one that made you mortal and brought you to this plane, all he did was lend his mind to me so I could find someone he was more willing to trust."

"Clever," Shivaroth mused. "You figured whoever he chose would eventually come back to your side."

"I knew they would." Aevar's dyed leather kilt was stiff with dried blood. "Most of the pantheon stands with me as it is."

He felt Shivaroth shift behind him; he stayed silent. A wrong word could get him maimed, a wrong move worse than that. He tried to hold back the tide of defeat, but his mind was still struggling to process the situation at hand. This was the end, this was it, it was over. He had made a noble effort, but it had failed. He was done. The bounty on his life would be collected, Aevar's mark burned from his throat, and his corpse left to rot.

"There was another mortal coming to meet us here." Shivaroth finally said the words that he had been dreading.

A look of intrigue crossed Aevar's face. "Oh?"

"She could prove to be an issue."

"Not for the both of us," Aevar said with a shrug. "We can kill her, and then go." Ronan stiffened in Shivaroth's hold. He raised his head, meeting Aevar's eyes with a renewed fury.

"Touch her and I tear your throat from your neck," he growled. "She is not your bounty."

"No," Aevar murmured, "but she certainly seems to hold some power over you."

"She is not worth it," Shivaroth insisted. "She has an army at her command, and a sharp mind. If she sees something is wrong, she will send it after us. If we are gone by the time she gets here, with no trail for her to follow, you are free to do as you please."

Aevar cast a glance over his shoulder, and nodded. He motioned for Shivaroth to lower the scimitar, and after a moment of hesitation, he did so. Ronan stood still for a moment, waiting for the sound of the blade being sheathed, before he whirled around and lunged for Shivaroth's throat, eyes bright with fury, fingers clutching at his scarf, his collar, anything he could reach.

"Damn you." Ronan's voice broke. Aevar's hands caught his arms, pulled him back. Ronan tore the scarf from Shivaroth's neck, his eyes hot with the coming of tears, his throat aching. Shivaroth flinched as Ronan yelled again, his own eyes wide with shock. "Damn you!"

Shivaroth pried the scarf from his hands before Aevar roughly tugged Ronan's arms behind his back and tied his wrists together. He watched Shivaroth study the scarf, ignoring his heaving breaths as they fogged the air between them. He dropped the red cloth at his feet, unconcerned. 

"There is no need to be uncivil," he said finally. "I am only doing what it takes to survive. Surely you can understand."

Ronan scoffed. Aevar dragged him up and he stifled a wince at the pull in his side.

"I trusted you," he said blankly. "Do you hear me, Shivaroth? _I trusted you_."

"A sweet piece of sentiment," Aevar said, turning him around and pushing him forward into the forest, keeping a hand tight on his forearm. "But you can never trust a god, Aldrea. We have seen more than you ever will, done more monstrous things than you can imagine. We are not your friends, we cannot love you, we will not show you mercy. The gods are not meant to stand beside mortals and hold their hands; there is a reason our realms are separated. We are above you. You would do well to remember that."

Ronan stumbled; Aevar pulled him up. The forest, untread upon by any other than the woodland creatures that wandered there, was dense and tangled. Ronan's lungs ached from the cold, and he kept his bitter gaze fixed on the ground. His vision started to swim—the pace was too much too quick, but he kept his mouth shut. He would not admit defeat even if it ended in his collapse. The next time he staggered, he saw Shivaroth move to steady him, and jerked his shoulder away, fixing the god with a glare that could not begin to convey the depths of his fury. Shivaroth opened his mouth, glanced at Aevar, and shut it.

The forest became darker with each passing hour. Ronan did not know how long he had been walking, only that by the time the sun finally set, they were still moving at a steady pace. He'd lost track of the direction they moved in—there was nothing but forest all around them, no landmarks, nothing to help him gauge their position.

His breathing grew shallower. A feverish heat had begun to spread inside him, and he soon lost the strength to do anything but walk. He focused on putting one foot down, then another, concentrating on staying upright, receiving no breaks from Aevar. It was obvious that their presence in the forest was purposeful, but he and Shivaroth had taken to speaking in Hjelohk, the immortal language, making it a near-impossible thing to unravel. Due to the fact that modern Adacian was drawn from Old Adacian and Old Adacian from Hjelohk, there were certain words he could infer the meanings of, but nothing more. None of those words—prince, memory, night, god—gave him any clue as to their whereabouts. Eventually he stopped trying to figure it out and let his head fall forward, his feet finally dragging to a stop.

A fever raged through him. Blood had soaked through his bandages and seeped into the front of his shirt, glistening and dark in the sparse light of the moon. Aevar stopped when he did, in time to see his knees buckle. Ronan collapsed in the snow, and Aevar looked down on him, raising an eyebrow.

"Get up," he said simply.

Ronan didn't answer. Aevar didn't deserve a reply.

"Aldrea, we do not have all night." Aevar hauled him up by his shoulders, holding him steady until he was sure the prince could stand on his own. "Stay up this time."

Shivaroth studied Ronan's face. "Something is wrong with him."

"Nothing so wrong that we have to stop."

"He is injured."

Aevar chuckled. "I always forget that you got soft. The boy is not coughing up blood or dying at my feet; we will continue."

His skin was alternating sickeningly between too hot and too cold. When he picked up his feet and started walking at Aevar's command, he veered alarmingly to the side, his vision darkening. This time it was Shivaroth that caught him. He had just enough sense left in him to push away from the god's enticingly warm hold with all the fury he could muster.

"Aevar." Shivaroth's voice was sharp. "Look at him."

"I did not come to keep the boy healthy," Aevar muttered.

"Neither did I," Shivaroth said sternly. "But unless you want to end up dragging his corpse, I suggest we do something." Ronan's head was swimming at the conversation.

Aevar studied him with a sullen disgust. "Carry him, then."

Ronan looked up at them both, straining against his bonds.

"If either of you touch me, I swear you'll regret it."

Aevar grinned, delighted at the hatred in Ronan's voice. "Then walk, boy."

So Ronan walked. Every time he stumbled he shot Shivaroth a glare as he moved to help, and eventually the god stopped trying. The night grew darker, the wind stronger, and the air colder. He wondered when they would stop. Wondered if he in fact wanted them to. Maybe the end of this journey was worse than its execution—he had no way of knowing anything for certain, but the steady pace with which Aevar walked and the quiet words exchanged every so often by the gods made Ronan certain that they had a fixed destination.

His suspicions were confirmed soon enough in the form of a dim, pulsing source of orange light, casting long shadows on the snow and a glow on the trees. Fire, he realized through his delirium. It was fire.

His chilled body longed for warmth. His fingers, wet with blood from deep gashes in his wrists where he had struggled against his ropes, twitched in response to the promise of a flame. There were voices there, too, the telltale sharpness of a Rhydellan accent present in them.

It was a war camp, he concluded as he was half-dragged into the clearing, bleary eyes averting themselves from the tall bonfire in the center of the camp. A war camp in which he was the prisoner. All eyes were on him. Some whispered. Others jeered. He was thrown down onto the ground, and without anyone to pull him back up, he simply lay, feverish cheek pressed mercifully into the snow, his blood staining it pink.

"This," Aevar called, his voice booming around the clearing, "is their king! Nothing but a pitiful mess of blood and flesh. Weak. Broken. He stands no chance against me, and his kingdom no chance against you. As promised," Aevar said, lowering his voice, "your men are free to take what they like. The island will be yours."

There was a cheer from the Rhydellan forces, and Ronan, with spite alone fueling him, hauled himself onto his knees. His hands, still bound behind his back, had gone numb.

Shivaroth stood at Aevar's right hand, his eyes reflecting the flames of the bonfire his gaze was fixed on. He did not speak and did not cheer, but stood running his fingers over the scars on his hands, lost in thought. When Aevar turned to someone that appeared to be a Rhydellan general, he barely reacted.

"Bring them out," Aevar said with a wave of his hand. The general nodded, ducking into a single red tent nestled neatly among the trees. Shivaroth turned his face from Ronan's view, looking toward the tent as an enraged shout echoed from it. A figure with a bag over their head was wrestled out the tent flap even as they fought against the general's hold. They were brought over, already tied in the same manner that Ronan was, and forced to their knees a few feet away from him. He struggled to focus. The bag was ripped from their head.

It took him some time to process the sight before him. It took the other only moments.

"No," they choked out, their voice bordering on panic. "Oh, no. Ronan."

He looked up. White hair, gray eyes, scarred face. The bonfire's light made it look like he was part of the flames himself. His eyes widened.

"Acaeus," he whispered. The knight's eyes locked on his bloodied clothes, then his sickly face. Ronan wished above all that he could have reached out a hand and offered comfort, but both the ropes and the eyes on them prevented it.

It seemed that any injuries Acaeus had sustained were minimal—there was a deep gash over his right eye and a bruise that spread over his cheekbone, but beyond that, Ronan could see no blood and no bandages. Acaeus leaned closer and whispered something that could have made him sob right then and there.

"They have Wynne, too." The faintest hint of a smile was present on his lips, no doubt an effort to reassure him. "She's okay. They haven't hurt us beyond what happened in Illirium." Aevar stepped between them, meeting Ronan's eyes.

"Do you see now, mortal? You have no hope left."

"Was this part of your bounty?" Ronan spat the words with venom. "The only life you need to take is mine. You could have had it."

"You were putting up a fight," Aevar said with a shrug. "These people got in my way."

"As if you couldn't have taken us!" Ronan raised his voice, slowly shaking off the haze of fever. "You could have just as easily taken my life the first time we met. You could have bound me with your magic, or done something equally horrible." His eyes narrowed. "You could have asked Shivaroth. You're toying with us."

Aevar stepped out of the way, and Ronan saw Acaeus' wide eyes locate Shivaroth, who stood unbound by the fire. It was obvious to him what had happened.

"Bastard," Acaeus hissed. Shivaroth didn't meet his eyes.

"I wanted a challenge," Aevar purred, unsheathing his sword and sliding the broken tip of it beneath Ronan's chin. He tilted the prince's face up and knelt down before him. "You were the perfect candidate. You held the key to the epitome of strife. The prince of a kingdom, doomed to die from birth. Without you, your island would be plunged into chaos, into war. Terror would run rampant, your people would suffer, guilt would tear you apart. I expected you to give up," he confessed. "But you just kept going."

"Gods can be killed just as anyone else," Ronan said. "I wasn't worried."

"Oh, but you were." Aevar's blade was cold against his skin. "You are. I can read you, Ronan. You are not as strong as you say, the last thing you want to do is take a life. You are a coward. You deserted your kingdom when the enemy got too close, and you were still running when I found you."

Aevar stood. Ronan was desperate to know his plan, desperate to know what was happening. This was not the date the prophecy had spoken of. It was not yet his time.

"Bring out the other one," Aevar muttered, wandering over to Shivaroth. The general that had brought Acaeus bowed and re-entered the tent. When the flaps opened again, Ronan's hopeful eyes met Wynne's.

She was much calmer than Acaeus had been. Her braid had come undone and thick hair was spread over her back and shoulders, tangled in some places and matted with blood in others. The moment she saw Ronan, though, her eyes widened. Flew to Aevar, then back to him. She stopped walking, and the general shoved her forward, not expecting her strength.

Wynne brought her foot down on the general's, her armored heel slamming into his leather-booted toes. He yelped, flinching back, and Wynne took the opportunity to spin around and raise her leg in a swift kick. The attack connected, Wynne's foot snapping the general's head to the side and bringing him down easily. She turned back and surged toward Ronan, cursing as the numerous arms of the Rhydellan soldiers caught her shoulders and held her back.

Aevar grinned at the commotion. Ronan's eyes stung.

Wynne was shoved forward and pushed down despite her resistance beside Acaeus, who hung his head.

"I'm sorry," Wynne whispered. "I tried."

"You did well." Ronan's voice was shaking. His fevered mind was sluggish and terrified. "Please, don't apologize."

Wynne's eyes were filled with sorrow. Aevar pulled away from his conversation with Shivaroth and raised his voice again, addressing the camp.

"It is late," he called. "You may retire, or leave if you so wish. Your oath to me is through; you have served me well."

There were murmurs among the camp. Some people began to ready their horses, others walked off into the woods right then and there. The general brought down by Wynne was slung over someone's shoulder and then put on the back of a horse that soon followed the majority of the camp. Five or six soldiers stayed behind, but quickly retreated to various tents. Ronan heard some speaking about leaving at dawn, and others about sticking around until Aevar left. He lowered his head. Aevar spoke directly to him, though he refused to meet his eyes.

"You will be given time to rest." Ronan could practically hear him sneer. "To catch up with your little Circle. You and I will keep moving when the time is right."

Ronan didn't dare to ask where they would be going. He wasn't sure he wanted to know—all he knew then was that he would at least live through the night, which was more than any of them had expected, and more than he had hoped to wish for.

"And what of you?" Wynne asked the questions he wouldn't, her eyes, hateful and raw, moving to Shivaroth before returning to Aevar.

"I will catch up with my..." Aevar trailed off. "With Shivaroth. I believe we have much to talk about." He grinned, a sight that Ronan had become too used to. "Perhaps there will be music, or a feast." He made a grand, mocking gesture. "One fit for gods, of course." A flicker of a smile crossed Shivaroth's face.

"Of course," he repeated, a playful humor in his voice. "Nothing less to celebrate a victory."

Ronan averted his eyes in disgust. Any and every shred of trust he had for Shivaroth had been decimated by his betrayal. This god, who had held him upright and soothed him, who had healed his wounds and fought by his side, had turned his back without question when he'd realized they were outmatched. It was an act of cowardice Ronan had not expected from the stories Shivaroth had told him about flinging himself in front of the blade meant for Aevar, or in the legends told by the temples. Shivaroth was seen as quietly courageous if not downright brave, appearing in stories as the mediator and the voice of reason, a neutral party, but willing to fight for what he believed in when there was no other option.

He glared at the snow. He would have to tell the temples that they had been wrong. Shivaroth was a disgrace to the honor they put on his name, a god that would rather live in the safety of dreams than in the harsh world around them.

"Ronan." Wynne's voice was low in the hopes that their captors wouldn't overhear them. Shivaroth and Aevar had sat down beside the fire, exchanging conversation in Hjelohk and occasionally slipping into Old Adacian, which Ronan tried to decipher. Wynne repeated his name with a hint of concern. He met her eyes.

"Your injuries," Wynne echoed softly. "Are they bad?"

"I..." Ronan considered his options. Hearing the weakness in his voice, he figured he was far past being able to give a convincing lie. "Yes. I took a hit in Illirium." Wynne's eyes darted to the blood on his shirt. "Shivaroth healed the internal damage, but it's still open. If we'd had more time in Llyran—"

Acaeus' mouth dropped open. "You got to Llyran?"

"We found Zia. She left to run a message, she must have been gone for only ten minutes..." He trailed off. Seeing the growing alarm in his companions' eyes, he gave them a weak smile. "She's okay, last I saw. Aevar and Shivaroth took me before she could get back."

"Did she follow?" A glimmer of hope was reignited as Wynne leaned forward. "If she got back before the tracks were filled, maybe she's on her way. We've all seen her fight, she could take them."

Ronan shook his head. "I don't think even Zia could take two gods. Shivaroth on his own held off an ok'havel until I could get there to help. She wouldn't stand a chance against them both."

"Then what do we do?" Acaeus' voice was calculating. "We can't sit here and wait for Aevar to drag you off. We all know that it isn't a good thing you're heading toward."

"I don't know," Ronan whispered. "I don't know if there _is_ anything we can do. This might be it." His words trailed off into a harsh fit of coughing, and his shoulders sagged. He felt the concerned radiating from Wynne and Acaeus on him but ignored them, focusing on evening his breathing. "I certainly can't hold my ground in a fight, and we're bound and tied. There's no way out."

"Acaeus, what about your magic?" Wynne ignored Ronan's fatalistic speech.

"It's exhausted," Acaeus murmured. "If I summon even a spark, there's a possibility that..." He trailed off, and Ronan followed the paths of Acaeus' scars with his eyes. They all knew the consequences.

The three fell into silence, which Ronan welcomed. He could tell that Wynne was trying to form a plan, unwilling to give up even at the clear end, and Acaeus stared intently at the bloodied snow between them. His was no longer an expression bordering on overconfidence, but one of bitter defeat.

He turned his head to Aevar and Shivaroth, catching something Shivaroth murmured over the roaring fire.

" _En riian ta arroh'vahk_." Ronan worked to translate it. He finally settled on, "you propose a bold move." His eyes narrowed.

" _Shih tar anvah riil. Ak'vah tan vas reyan_." Aevar responded entirely in Hjelohk, unlike Shivaroth's mix of the immortal language and Old Adacian. He had no hope of translating, but the next words Shivaroth said made their topic of conversation clear enough.

" _Tan'vah ahk tema sho en van'le ahre koh_." He may not survive until you can carry it out. " _Vis lo tai_." Look at him. " _Tan'ei vehra._ " He's dying.

Ronan leaned forward. Aevar shook his head, muttering something in Old Adacian, sharp and clear.

" _Tan'ei aravohka ten en sihan_." He is stronger than you think. Then in modern Adacian, "He will survive, if only because of the prophecy. After that, I will strike him down myself."

Shivaroth flinched like he'd been struck. "Listen to me," he whispered. "Truly listen." He steeled himself, fixing Aevar with a look that was more intense than anything Ronan had seen.

" _Sha'ha mara en atala khan Temok, Aevar?_ _Shan vo'kjela dirna ha sha bohren_." It was said in Old Adacian. Aevar's eyes were blank. The words translated themselves slowly in Ronan's mind: why must you always tempt Fate? She works well on her own.

"I do not know what you mean," Aevar said slowly. "The date of his death has been moved up. So? Where is the importance in that?"

"The importance," Shivaroth whispered, "is that we will only further the descent into unbalance. There is nothing—"

"Have you considered that perhaps that is what I want, Dreamweaver?"

"I have. It is foolish."

"It is _fun_ ," Aevar said, studying Shivaroth intently. "It will not harm us, only the mortals. You lost much of yourself with your first life, it would seem. You are but a child again, brother, you cannot possibly understand. You are no older than the very prince I aim to kill. You have no influence over me or the rest of the pantheon. I have taken your throne."

Shivaroth's lip curled. His eyes flashed, if only briefly.

"Do you truly believe us to be so disconnected from them? That if they wipe themselves out, we will keep moving forth as if nothing has happened? We would be spelling out our own demise as well as—" Shivaroth glanced over at Ronan, meeting his eyes directly. Dread crawled over him as Aevar turned to see what he'd been looking at. "—theirs," Shivaroth finished. "We have an eavesdropper, it would seem."

"So we do." Aevar's voice was rigid. "Take care of it."

Ronan tensed as Shivaroth pushed himself up and started forth. His bare feet made little sound in the snow. When he stopped in front of Ronan, he was silent, calculating. Wynne and Acaeus glared at him.

"Ronan," Shivaroth said with an unreadable glint in his eyes. He gripped the prince's shoulders and hauled him up, walking him a few paces away from his Circle and stopping a bit to the left of Aevar before dropping him back on his knees. Ronan glared at him. He knew all eyes were on them.

"Do not do too much damage, my friend," Aevar called. "I need him alive for now." He turned away. Shivaroth shifted, drawing his scimitar and meeting Ronan's eyes. The prince refused to flinch.

Shivaroth moved with a disturbing grace. He circled Ronan for a moment before kneeling down behind him and pressing against him, leaning forward to whisper something in his ear.  
"Do not react." Shivaroth's voice was shaking. "Stay still." Ronan, even through a jolt of surprise, was wise enough to do as he asked. He felt the cool slide of metal against his wrists, and then the telltale drop of the ropes sliding from them. He kept his hands in place and his head down in defeat. Only his eyes, widening minutely, gave any hint of his shock.

"Keep this. You will know when the time is right to use it; be ready." The hilt of Shivaroth's scimitar was pressed against his palm, and he hissed one more thing before pulling away.  
"You can only kill a god with a weapon that has once been wielded by another."

A jolt went through him. Shivaroth stood, adopting a cold, detached air. "Do it again," he said, just loud enough for Aevar to hear, "and we will not be so lenient."

Shivaroth walked back, tugging his hair from the bun and letting curls fall down around his shoulders. The god stripped off his torn coat next, dropping it in a heap by the fire and rolling his shoulders back with a sigh.

"It is good to relax, is it not?" Aevar's voice was even, calm. Nothing like his usual manner.

"It is," Shivaroth murmured.

"It has been a good stretch of time since I have heard you sing," Aevar said with a chuckle. "Would you mind..?"

A pained look flashed across Shivaroth's face, but he nodded. "I am not the patron of minstrels without reason."

Ronan averted his eyes as Shivaroth began to sing, the sound light and carrying. He caught Wynne's eyes across the short distance between them, and upon seeing that Aevar was staring intently at Shivaroth, he shifted the scimitar in his hands, letting a glint of firelight hit it. Wynne's eyes widened, and she mouthed Shivaroth's name—a question, to which he nodded.

He couldn't determine the full scope of his play, but Shivaroth was on their side for now. Perhaps he always had been, or perhaps he'd had a change of heart. It was impossible for him to tell, and he wouldn't think about it then.

His eyes snapped back to Aevar as he stood, still studying Shivaroth. The other god's voice joined his in a halting, hesitant tone, and Shivaroth offered him a hand, leading him once he took it in a tentative dance. They moved slowly, as if they were relearning old habits, and Ronan's fear and fury slowly shifted to confusion.

Shivaroth met his eyes after a few minutes, when he had picked up another song and started singing about the Great Sea. Even as he sang, there were tears gathering in his eyes. The hand he had rested against Aevar's broad shoulder was shaking. He gave Ronan a distinct nod, and the prince forced himself to his feet. The scimitar was balanced and even in his hands. He had one shot, and he wouldn't waste it. Shivaroth's voice rose, hitting the peak of the song, and Ronan moved forward as his words rang out through the clearing.

" _Al'en mahn tii, al'en mahn tii, viiraj na vokah nesah!_ "

Beside you, beside you, until the seas part.

The song ended. Aevar froze. Ronan saw his chance. The moment he lunged, Shivaroth's eyes widened in panic, and he called out a single word, too late, too late—

"Wait!"

Aevar lunged out of the way. Ronan pulled back before the blade could be driven forward farther, the tip grazing Shivaroth's chest before he was able to stagger back. Shivaroth's eyes were wide, and he pushed Ronan behind him as a few feet away, Aevar began to laugh.

"Do you truly think me to be that foolish, Shivaroth? Foolish enough to overlook your little ploy, to trust you after you've so clearly shown your loyalty to the mortals?"

Shivaroth tensed. His arm came up to shield Ronan's body. Ronan stood silently, barely daring to breathe as Aevar trailed a finger down the hilt of his blade.

"You have to understand," Shivaroth breathed. "I cannot let you go through with this."

"Not even for old times' sake?" Aevar's words took on a teasing tone, and he took a step forward. Ronan's vision was threatening to fail him. He swayed where he stood.

In front of him, Aevar drew his blade. He raised it not with fury but the cool confidence of one that knew they were about to get their way. Shivaroth's scimitar slipped from Ronan's fingers and fell into the snow, followed soon after by his body when Ronan dropped to his knees.

"Your dear mortal is too weak to keep himself standing, Shivaroth, much less bring about my end. Surrender yourself to me. Perhaps I can still find a way for you to see things the way they are."

"You are delusional," Shivaroth hissed. "You have lost yourself."

In the blink of an eye, Aevar had raised his blade to Shivaroth's cheek, pressing the edge against his skin and drawing forth a thin line of blood. Shivaroth gritted his teeth.

"I am more myself than I have ever been," Aevar said, the proclamation a rumble in his chest. "Pity that you cannot bring yourself to see it."

Aevar turned to one of the remaining Rhydellan soldiers, gesturing them over with a jerk of his head. "Bind him," he muttered. "The prince too."

As the Rhydellan wound a rope around Shivaroth's wrists, Aevar held up a hand. "Not with those. Use the shackles." Aevar turned back once the commander had nodded, and pulled the scimitar away from Ronan's reaching hands.

"You think yourselves able to stand against Fate? Your heart has been marked for my blade since long before your birth." He knelt down before Ronan, cupping his chin in his hand. "You are weak. Foolish. You lack fire, passion—you cannot conquer anything as you are, let alone your destiny." When Ronan didn't respond, Aevar gripped him by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet, marching him to a far corner of the camp and forcing him back to his knees. He was just able to feel the heat of the bonfire where he sat, but Aevar had positioned him so that the flames blocked him from his Circle, isolating him with malevolent intent.

Aevar bound his wrists behind his back.

"Tell me when you have found your fire, Ronan. Killing you will be no fun if you do not squirm a little."


	11. XI. Winged Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the prophecy finally catches up to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: major character injury, illness, blood.

Days passed. It must have been days. Days of feverish dreams and half-awake pleas and shouts of his name across what seemed to be a rift of flame. Ronan had long ago slumped sideways into the snow, staining it red with his blood and melting it where his overheated flesh made contact.

At some point, the voices stopped calling out to him. His lips, parched and chapped, could not seem to form a response.

If death was something one could feel, Ronan became intimately familiar with it. He felt its caress, its embrace, not menacing as he had thought but warm, welcoming. He lost track of how long it had been, how long it was until the prophecy would see itself out.

Aevar came for him one day, when the sun was beginning to set. He spoke to him, put the back of his hand against his forehead, sighed.

"You are dying," he said evenly. "And just in time." Ronan's eyes opened at the sound of his voice. Aevar surveyed his position, splayed out on the ground with no light in his eyes, and shook his head.

"It would be a shame if the fever took you before I did," Aevar murmured, bending down and sliding an arm beneath his knees, the other beneath his neck. Ronan was lifted with ease, no part of him able to retaliate, though he knew what was coming.

His head lolled back. The sky was brushed with darkness, touched by dusk. There was a word from Aevar and his head began to clear, his vision to sharpen. He drew in a breath, sharp against his lungs, and began to shiver in his arms.

"There you are, boy. Breathe. Your death approaches, but even I am not so cruel as to let you die on your knees."

Ronan's chest heaved. He whispered two words, words that only half aligned with his thoughts, stilted and hesitant. "Thank you."

"I would not strip you of your dignity," Aevar said as Ronan's body continued to mend itself. "I promised to give you an honorable death when we first met. I know you see me as a merciless figure, but I would not take your honor from you."

"You mean to kill me without reason."

"Yes."

"That is merciless."

"It is destiny," Aevar asserted. "Though often I have found that those two things are one and the same. We are both bound by it as we are bound to each other—Fate rests higher than even the pantheon, child."

Ronan let his guard down. No use in holding anything back now. "Why can't you overthrow it?"

"How can you overthrow a force of nature?" They emerged from behind the bonfire, and Ronan's eyes scanned the clearing. There were few Rhydellan soldiers left, and those that had stayed were gathered around the bonfire. Some sat near the members of his Circle, guarding them, their weapons comfortably positioned within their grasp. He wondered why Aevar had stayed beside them for so long—perhaps it was because they represented the side of chaos.

Wynne and Acaeus were asleep. They were on their knees, hands and feet still bound, with Acaeus' head resting against Wynne's shoulder and Wynne's cheek atop his hair. They were, as they always had been, the force at the eye of the storm—a spot of peace amidst a maelstrom.

He didn't call out to them. Didn't wake them. He had no idea what he would have said—farewell? Thank you? A last declaration of love? Nothing was right in the time he had. Nothing would have conveyed his gratitude.

"Ronan?" His name was barely a breath on its speaker's lips—his eyes darted to its source, to Shivaroth, whose eyes were wide and stricken.

"Shiva," he murmured.

Shivaroth leaned forward, straining against the bonds on his wrists, which had been switched upon Aevar's request to heavy chains bearing runic sigils. They did not bend as the god's marred hands ignited with his magic, did not break. The magic was forced back beneath his skin and he was left breathing hard, tears streaming down his cheeks from pain or fear or some other implacable slew of emotion.

The chains, Ronan realized, contained him. Contained his full godly being. He bit his lip as Shivaroth spoke again, the words broken.

"Aevar, please. Do not do this."

Aevar paused briefly, meeting the other god's eyes. "You know as well as I that this is unavoidable," he said. "Be at peace, Dreamweaver. I will give him a good death."

"It's okay," Ronan whispered. "I'm—"

"No." Shivaroth seemed to collect himself, lifting his chin and assuming the same regality he had carried in Serenvah, though back then he had not been quite so raw. So human. "Fight this, Ronan." As Aevar carried him from the clearing, he raised his voice. "Fight this! Promise me!"

Ronan shut his eyes, feeling the wind tousle his hair. There was a sting behind his eyelids, an ache in his throat.

"I promise," he said to no one but the sky, much too far for Shivaroth to hear him. Aevar remained silent at his declaration, either unconcerned or uncaring.

It was a few moments before Aevar spoke again, a sound that Ronan had come to see as something as steady as the sun and stars, a constant, a sure fact of his life.

"You gave me a good hunt, Ronan." There was something subdued about his nature. Ronan's mind was on other things.

"What will happen to them?" His legs were shaking. The fever had almost entirely left him, and the wound in his torso was stiff from the rapid growth of scar tissue.

"To your Circle? To Shivaroth?"

"Yes."

"I do not know," Aevar said. They were still walking, the sun still sinking. "Shivaroth will be judged by the pantheon. He has committed many crimes against us, and will be prosecuted following our laws. Your Circle will be dealt with as necessary."

Aevar stopped walking, and Ronan opened his eyes. They were standing on a cliffside, one that overlooked the rolling hills below and the sea beyond it. The waves curled around the shores, rose up to meet them, and far in the distance stood a familiar group of towers surrounded by high gates, a city that the light had not touched for years, one that was stolen and rulerless and in the midst of strife. Tears came to Ronan's eyes.

It was Adacia Proper.

It was home.

He was placed on his knees. Aevar unsheathed his blade and he flinched, eyes still fixed on the city, _his city_ , in the distance—moments later, the ropes fell from his wrists, then his ankles, cut easily by the god's broken sword. Ronan's eyes widened when he was offered a hand.

He took it.

Aevar pulled him to his feet and they looked into each other's eyes, silent, as the sun set. Aevar's face, all sharp edges and warpaint, was softened by the dusk. Ronan could only imagine how he looked; wide-eyed, awed, childish. Afraid.

Aevar raised his blade between them. "Her name is _Amon'Llyra_ ," he murmured. "It means 'winged victory'. She was broken many years ago, in the final attack on the Void Gate."

Ronan took a deep breath. "Why are you telling me this?"

"So you may know the blade that is to kill you."

He exhaled. Took the sight of it in. Its hilt was carved in a way that made it seem to flow, to reach, while its blade was cut short near the base, shattered by what must have been a great force, a strange juxtaposition of a weapon. He could see it had once been beautiful and pure, untouched by the Void or the darkness.

Much like her wielder.

" _Amon'Llyra_ ," Ronan echoed, testing the name on his tongue. Winged victory. He looked out over Adacia, the land he was supposed to protect. The sun was setting into the sea.

"What will happen to my people?" He whispered, turning his back on the god that was to kill him. He walked forward, his toes at the edge of the cliff, too exhausted to fear the consequences. 

"I assume they will lose this war of theirs," Aevar said. "I promised the island to Rhydel in exchange for their protection, after all. They are intent on capturing Adacia as their own; your people will likely become subservient."

The sun was casting its last rays on the sea. Ronan's heart was pounding. Aevar hadn't needed protection. He had been playing a game. The god stepped forward, his leather-clad feet cacophonous in the silence surrounding them.

"It is time, child. Are you ready?"

Ronan took one last look at Adacia. The sea. The sky. The palace. The brown-greens and grays and whites. He nodded. Whispered, "yes."

"Face me."

He obeyed. He turned to face Aevar, his chin up, his eyes open. Aevar studied him, twirling his blade in his hand, before he gave Ronan a deep nod.

"Thank you," he said.

Ronan stared at him. He did not speak and instead simply nodded, his eyes locked stubbornly on the falling sun that lit Aevar's hair and cast his face into shadow. Ronan took a breath; the winter air was sharp but this time the pain was something beautiful. Something worth remembering.

Aevar raised his blade. _Amon'Llyra_ caught the light as she swung down, jagged edge burying itself just beneath Ronan's ribcage and tearing, drawing forth a choked gasp and an abrupt spill of his blood onto the snow.

He kept his eyes locked on the sun as Aevar turned his back, abandoning the blade in Ronan's flesh. If there was pain, he had yet to feel it.

"You leave behind an interesting legacy, Ronan Aldrea." Ronan's hands came up to cradle the blade in his stomach as Aevar spoke. Ronan exhaled, then inhaled, each breath a bit shorter than the last. "A dying people, a broken Circle, a throne with no occupant."

Something kindled itself in his chest. Something half-shattered, forgotten, left behind somewhere long ago. His hands steadied themselves.

He tore the blade from his flesh, lunged forward, and drove it deep into Aevar's back, Shivaroth's voice echoing in his muddled mind— _fight this, promise me, fight this—_ the god froze. Stumbled forward. Aevar, the Chaos-Bringer, the Void Guardian, fell to his knees before him. Ronan mirrored the action, his own blood slicking his fingers along with Aevar's.

Within moments, Aevar had reached out and pulled the blade from his body, falling stiff and shocked onto his back.

The snow ran red with his blood. His hair fanned out around him, the same color as the dying sun and just as fierce. The gods exuded grace and beauty even in death, even in agony. Aevar's eyes were open, his lips slightly parted, his hands relaxed. If he understood what was happening, he didn't seem distressed. He turned his head toward Ronan, eyes locking on the mark at the base of his neck. He chuckled, the sound deep and pained, wet with the blood in his throat.

"Fitting," he said, "that we should die together."

Ronan swayed on his knees. "Yes."

Aevar stared at him. At his eviscerated abdomen, the tears streaming down his cheeks, the way his breath fogged the air, arrhythmic and stilted. His grin faded until it was only a smile, an upturning of his lips, a tired thing.

"There," Aevar whispered, triumphant, his eyes locked on Ronan's. "There it is."

"What?"

"The fire, child." He took a breath, said his next word on an exhale. "Yours."

It was then that the life left him. His own fire went out with the sun, which finally fell beneath the waves, shrouding the land in shadow. The clouds split above him and lightning struck the ground far below, once, twice, three times, four, five, six. The rain came next; the gods wept. Ronan let the water wash over his face, masking tears he wasn't even aware had fallen, carrying the blood from his skin.

 _Amon'Llyra_ had fallen discarded between them. Ronan's eyes wandered from her shattered blade as the storm raged. He fell forward, catching himself on Aevar's shoulders, the god's skin chilled from the rain and blood that flowed, unending, from his wound. Ronan lowered his forehead down, pressed it against Aevar's chest, and let his eyes close.

Their blood mingled. The rain soaked them both in minutes, and Ronan fought to stay awake, his fingers tight on Aevar's shoulders.

It wasn't much longer before it all began to fade in and out. Sound became faint, the feeling of Aevar's unmoving body beneath his arms was dulled, his mind numbed. He succumbed to his exhaustion once, then again, until everything became hazy. Warm.

He was so warm. He was blissfully, tantalizingly warm. The ground beneath him was heated as if from the sun, the liquid sliding over the flesh of his stomach as comforting as bathwater. He didn't want to pull himself back. His eyes, so lovingly closed, were content as they were. Had it not been for the vicious, biting touch at his shoulder, he would not have been aware of anything at all.  
"Ronan, please."  
The voice was odd. It was not Aevar's, it was not as steady as his had been. He couldn't remember where Aevar had gone. Someone pulled him from the thing he'd been clinging to, laid him on his back.  
"Please, please, open your eyes. Look at me—oh, Gods, what has he done to you—"

The touch moved from his shoulders to his stomach, above the warmth of the liquid and then within it, pressing hard against it, cutting through the comfort and reaving his peace in two.

The voice raised in panic. "Get back to the camp—get those chains off of Shivaroth, we need him _now!_ "

Ronan let out a guttural moan, his head falling to the side. The warmth was fading. He could not let it go.

The voice turned its attention back to him. "I can't lose you now. Not to him. Not like this. I'm begging you, come back to me. Please, Ronan."

The touch on his stomach shifted. The jagged edge of his armor, curled under from the initial blow that had begun to creep back into his memory, grazed his split skin. His legs spasmed, his lungs screamed for air, his eyes flew open, his hands jerked up to clutch at the those of whoever had found him. He was crying, his breath coming in short gasps. He did not know where he was, what he was, what the world around him meant, but he knew who sat beside him.

"A—" his voice broke, low and hoarse. The name dragged out from between his lips. "—cae...us." 

"Ronan." Acaeus' face, mottled with dirt and blood, was streaked with tears. "Oh, Ronan, I—Ronan." He lowered his head, resting his forehead against the prince's chest, shoulders heaving. "Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you." A pause, and then, "I'm sorry." 

The wound in his stomach was wide and gaping. He felt it now, remembered the cut of Aevar's blade, the tearing of his flesh. 

"Hurts," he whispered. "Acaeus, it—I—"

"I know. I know, but you have to stay awake." One of Acaeus' hands lifted from where he'd been holding them over the brutalized tear in Ronan's flesh and ran through his hair, his fingers trailing over his scalp, a gentle touch in a wasteland of agony. Ronan leaned into it. "Shivaroth will be here soon," Acaeus murmured. "His magic can heal you, _ma veyha_." My dear, Ronan thought. _Ma veyha_ , my dear, my dear.

" _Ma veyha_ ," he said on an exhale, echoing Acaeus in broken Rhydellan. 

"Yes, Ronan." Acaeus' hands were shaking. "My dear."


	12. XII. Avok'Shai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's an odd feeling, mourning an enemy.

Ronan was hearing voices.

Far away from the pain, from the panicked cries and hands on his face, he was hearing voices. A woman's voice, gentle, surrounded by many smaller ones. The woman's won out among the rest, whispering a word into his ear, one word. One word.

" _Avok'Shai_ ," she said.

In some other world, part of him reacted. His breath stuttered, his lips formed a response, speaking it not to the woman but aloud, to those that surrounded him where his physical body lay.

" _Miira i'tai nahina_." He spoke words he did not understand, words in the language of the gods. He felt the woman's presence. Understood that he was dying.

The rest of the voices joined it, whispering " _Avok'Shai_ " deep within his mind, threatening to stop his heart, the sound coming together like the voices of a chorus, unrelenting and consuming.

Beneath it all, the pain had begun to claw at him. It was a fire in his veins, and he wanted nothing more than to writhe, to get away from it, but his body was prone and frozen. Outside of the cacophony, he heard familiar voices. They were pleading, some speaking to him and some to others, but they all carried the same fearful quality.

The woman's presence enveloped him.

" _You are clever_ ," she breathed, " _outwitting us like this. You must live. You are a killer, the blood of our kin stains your hands—but all the same, you must carry out the prophecy. Today and today alone, Ronan Aldrea, I will not take you_."

On the plane below, his body drew in a shuddering gasp. His eyes flew open and he was forced back into his flesh, one hand curling harshly in the snow around him, his limbs trembling.

"That's it, Ronan, eyes open, there we are." This voice was not like the others; it was soothing, shaking but not panicked. His head was cradled in the speaker's lap. Wynne. It had to be Wynne.

" _Miira i'tai nahina_ ," he whispered again, the words still fresh on his lips.

"What in the name of the Three is he saying?" Another voice, Acaeus', was sharp and rushed. "Shivaroth, what's he saying?"

Shivaroth responded, shaken. "That is not the priority. I need to heal him, you must let me concentrate. Be still."

Hands ghosted over his abdomen, now armorless. They were warm, a jarring contrast to the rain that still fell around him. His head listed to the side, his cheek resting against Wynne's knee. He caught a glimpse of a body lying prone near a bonfire, pale and lifeless, once-proud hair matted with mud.

"Don't look at that," Wynne murmured, turning his head back so he was looking at the canopy of trees above. "Focus on my voice, alright? Can you do that?"

He tried to form a response but his lips were numb and stiff, slick with rain. He coughed and a metallic liquid coated his tongue, mingling with the water on his face. A tendril of blood snaked from the corner of his mouth. A moment later he forced out a single slurred word, staring up at Wynne through the dancing spots of darkness in his vision, his mind not quite aligning with his sight.

"Mother?" It was a pitiful whine.

Wynne breathed in sharply.

"I'm here, Ronan." She whispered after a beat. "I'm right here."

He could hardly tell who was speaking anymore. He let out a ragged sob.

"Shivaroth, what's taking you so long?" Wynne again, this time with the hint of panic she'd previously been concealing. She bent down and smoothed his hair away from his forehead, her other hand resting on his shoulder.

"I cannot seem to find my magic," he breathed. "The runes are stifling it." Ronan's eyes rested on his wrists. One was still shackled, while the other metal cuff had been split in two.

"Acaeus, can you get the other one off?"

"It took everything I had to take care of the first one," Acaeus whispered. "You're just going to have to push through it."

Ronan's eyes were closing. Shivaroth's hand gripped his own and Ronan's gaze fixed on his figure. The god's hair was limp around his shoulders and his jacket darkened and heavy with rain; his wrist was burned lightly where the right shackle had previously rested.

"Ronan," Shivaroth said softly. "I need you to be strong for me. You have done so well, fought so hard. All I ask is that you fight just a bit longer."

The prince's breath hissed out from between his teeth. His fingers twitched, tightening around Shivaroth's, a silent promise that the god received with a sorrowful look and a grateful nod.

Shivaroth closed his eyes and drew back his hand. His magic ignited beneath his skin, a deep red-purple, curling up around his right fingers but never touching his left.

The shackle remaining around his wrist began to smoke and then to burn white-hot, pushing back his magic with a torturous flame. While Shivaroth's magic was still ignited, he moved his right hand over Ronan's wound, forcing the skin to heal through the shackle's efforts to extinguish his power.

Ronan was teetering dangerously on the edge of consciousness. He forced his eyes open. He had promised. He had _promised_.

His flesh began to knit itself together, covering the jagged edges of the wound Aevar had inflicted with stiff silver scar tissue. Wynne held his shoulders, keeping him still as pain bloomed in his stomach.

The remedy was less gentle than the injury.

His skin pulled, climbing over itself, reconnecting to muscle as his lungs screamed for air. The blow had been numb when it happened, fast and brutal but expected, understood. The healing was slow, it was agonizing, and it stopped halfway through when Shivaroth lurched away from him to dry-heave into the snow. Someone Ronan had trouble focusing on ran to hold back his hair, speaking softly to him until they established that he was able to continue.

So he did. Shivaroth reignited his magic through the smell of his own burning flesh, seared beneath the chains on his arm, his face a blank mask of agony and determination, his eyes alight with power.

This, Ronan thought. This was what a god was, stripped down to their core. Just as human, just as fragile, just as broken as any of them.

When Shivaroth's magic finally exhausted itself, he sat back, cradling his left arm to his chest and studying his handiwork. Ronan's stomach, previously split down the middle, had pulled itself back into a wide scar that traveled down from his ribs to his naval. His body was still weak, his head still swimming, his eyes glassy and focused on nothing. Shivaroth reached out a tentative hand, pulling Ronan's shirt down over the scar, hiding it from view.

He looked ill.

"Ronan?" Wynne's voice brought him back to himself. He realized he'd been holding his breath, which he let out with a short exhale. "Can you hear me? Say something, child. Please."

His eyes focused on the sky behind the trees, dark and cloud-strewn. "I can hear you," he said finally, his voice barely audible.

"Thank the Three," Wynne breathed.

His memory began to return to him. He looked back toward the body he had seen, Aevar's, and clutched at Wynne's wrist.

"I killed him," he choked out. "I'm—I—"

"Easy, easy," Wynne said hurriedly. "Breathe."

"She called me an _Avok'Shai_." His hands began to shake, to regain feeling. "She...she called me..."

"She?" Over his head, Wynne exchanged a glance with Shivaroth. "No one called you that, child. Only we have been with you."

"You don't understand." He tried to force himself up, which prompted an alarmed cry from Wynne. Shivaroth's hand shot out to push him back down.

"Stay still," Shivaroth pleaded. "We are all safe, we are all with you. Acaeus, Wynne, Zia—"

"Zia?" Ronan's eyes widened, finally landing on the figure he had seen earlier. She stood beside Acaeus, her posture stiff and her cloak muddied. She held a red scarf tightly in her grip and smiled when he looked at her, waving with a trembling hand.

He surveyed the clearing. They were back at the warcamp, positioned near the bonfire that still raged through the rain. Bodies clad in red were strewn about, severed ropes were discarded, tent flaps astray.

"What happened?" He whispered. "How did you—what—"

Wynne shook her head before Acaeus could respond, shooting him a meaningful look that Ronan didn't catch.

"Later, Ro. Right now we have to move. Do you feel like you can stand?"

"I don't know," he said. Shivaroth bit his lip, pulling his sleeve down over the shackle that remained on his wrist and the mutilated flesh beneath it.

"We should not move him yet."

"We don't have a choice, you said so yourself." Wynne nodded to Aevar's body. "We can't wait around for retaliation."

"If I may." Zia cut in, stepping forward. She seemed hesitant, uncharacteristically so. "We can't stay here, but we can't stay on the road too long. Ronan's lost too much blood."

"So what, then?" Acaeus chimed in from the side, not meeting Ronan's eyes. "We don't have many options. Ferenheld is close but there's no guarantee we can enter, let alone find safety. There must be something." His eyes widened, and he and Wynne spoke his realization aloud in unison.

"Terr'Havel."

Shivaroth's brow furrowed. "Terr'Havel _?_ " It was Old Adacian for _Green Stone_ , the traditional name of a place Ronan had forgotten.

"My wife, Liliana. It's her family's old manor." Wynne spoke with a hesitance that Ronan couldn't blame her for.

"We can't bring this to her door," he said quietly. "I can't be responsible for any more death. Not now. Not hers."

"We have no other choice." Wynne shifted, an obvious discomfort settling in her. "The mountains are no home to us now, Ferenheld could very well refuse to let us enter, Illirium was taken, and Adacia Proper is out of the question. The Midlands are scarcely populated, the Rhydellans have hardly touched it—Terr'Havel not only has walls and a roof, but anonymity. The Tsu Rin name is not one the enemy knows well. We have to go."

"Besides, Liliana can take care of herself," Acaeus said with forced confidence. "She's half-decent with a blade and lethal with her words. She'll be alright."

Ronan shut his eyes, thinking it over, and Shivaroth's fingers tightened around his arm out of habitual panic. The god held on for a moment longer, reminding himself that Ronan was still breathing, still alive, before uttering a quiet apology and retracting his hand.

"If we must," Ronan said after a moment of deliberation. "But the second it seems we are putting her in danger—"

"Trust me," Wynne muttered. "We will have left long before then. I won't let them touch her." She turned her focus to Acaeus, nodding at the far corner of the clearing where a few Rhydellan horses were tied. "Gather all the supplies we can carry. We leave within the hour."

Acaeus nodded, looking relieved to have something to do other than standing over Ronan's body. He left with the swiftness of someone trying to escape, head down and hands poised over the rapier hanging at his waist, ready to draw it if the need arose.

"I'll join him," Zia said after a moment, locking eyes with Ronan and mouthing " _I'm proud of you_ " before jogging to catch up with Acaeus' retreating figure.

He was left with only Wynne and Shivaroth by his side, his vision going dark.

"I need to sit up," he breathed. Wynne glanced down and nodded, hooking her hands beneath his shoulders.

"Ready?"

He nodded and she lifted him easily, wincing as Ronan let out a pitiful half-sob at the pain that rose in him. The world spun when he was up but his breathing came easier, and when Wynne was sure he was steady she let him go and turned to Shivaroth, holding out an expectant hand. The god stared at it, unmoving.

"Your arm," Wynne said after a moment. "Let me see."

"I am not the one you should be concerned about."

"We have time, and I don't know if you're physically capable of getting infections, but we can't risk it. That wound wasn't something you can brush aside."

Shivaroth studied her, then gave her his hand, which Wynne turned palm-up before pulling his sleeve away from his wrist.

Ronan nearly gagged at the sight.

Beneath the runic cuff Shivaroth's skin was burned away, down to the pink of muscle. What remained of the outer layer of flesh had blistered, and a glint of bone was visible beneath it. Wynne exhaled sharply.

"By the Three."

Shivaroth showed no signs of pain outside of a tightly clenched jaw and the tremors in his hand. The metal still sat over the worst of the wound, and Ronan dreaded what was hidden beneath it.

"You shouldn't have had to go through that," Ronan whispered. "I'm sorry I caused you so much pain."

Shivaroth's response was lost on him as he once again focused on Aevar. He remembered the way the light had left his eyes, how once the god was dead he'd clung to him like a lifeline.

A wave of unexpected sorrow nearly overwhelmed him; he had lost the only other force in the world that understood what it was to be a slave to Fate.

"What day is it?" He asked, dreading the answer.

"It's your birthday," Wynne said quietly, focused on examining the shackle on Shivaroth's forearm. "The Fourteenth of the Fourth Quarter."

If he survived until the sun rose, he would defy prophecy. Defy destiny. Yet the words of the woman still echoed in his mind, the reluctant admittance she had uttered before leaving him—" _you must carry out the prophecy_."

This was his prophecy. He had already carried it out. He had fought against it and won through the exact means he had sworn to avoid, but he had emerged triumphant.

He was alive, Aevar was not.

The thought made him sick. He shook his head, unable to process the words Wynne and Shivaroth were exchanging, even when Shivaroth clearly spoke his name.

"I shouldn't be alive." Ronan stared blankly toward the bonfire. "I shouldn't be here."

"Don't say that," Wynne said gently. "You did what you had to do to protect yourself."

"I don't know why I did it."

"Ronan—"

"He had already stabbed me. His end of the prophecy was through. I don't know why I did it, because it certainly wasn't to protect myself."

"Listen to me." It was Shivaroth that spoke this time, stern and unyielding. "Nothing will come out of this. You have taken a life. You have done this before, we all have. It is a fact of existence. We must do so to survive ourselves." Shivaroth reached out his good arm, cupping Ronan's cheek in his hand. "Eventually, you will come to terms with it. Not for a very, very long time, but I swear to you, it will happen."

"Shivaroth." Wynne's voice caught the god's attention, pulled him away. She was looking at his wrist, at the gruesome burns. "Can you get this off of yourself?"

"If I could," he said evenly, "I would have done so."

"It was worth a shot." Wynne glanced away from the injury, shaking her head. Ronan let his eyes wander, over the forest, the sky, the fire.

"Acaeus can't do it until his magic replenishes itself, the rest of us aren't wielders, and taking a blade to it would only cause more damage."

"I will keep it on, then."

"And what? Risk a more severe burn? Are you able to heal what damage is there now?"

"No."

"Then that's out of the question."

Shivaroth shook his head. "It is unavoidable for the time being."

The two continued to bicker and Ronan could hear the underlying stress, the forced normalcy they were putting forth for his benefit. He still saw the darkness, still heard the woman's voice. His skin was still bloodied.

"Shivaroth," he said after a moment. The god stopped speaking mid-sentence, turning tired eyes toward him. Wynne stood, offered an understanding farewell, and left them to help Acaeus and Zia prepare for their upcoming journey. The moment she was out of sight, his eyes filled with tears, and Shivaroth's quickly did the same.

"Oh, Ronan," he whispered, pulling the prince forward into his arms. "Breathe, dear one."

"I'm sorry," he whispered between gasps. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He felt Shivaroth's tears on his skin as they ran from his eyes, felt the minute tightening of his fingers in Ronan's shirt.

"I took someone from you. Someone you love. I'm—"

"Please," Shivaroth said softly. "Please, stop. I do not blame you."

"But I dealt the blow," Ronan protested, pulling back. He raised his hands between them, shaking and weak, raw and burned in streaks and patches where Aevar's blood had flown over them. "I did this."

"You did." The god hesitated. "You did, but you were not the one that brought this upon him. Aevar—he—" Shivaroth's voice broke. He said Aevar's name as if it pained him. Ronan reached out a tentative hand, running his thumb along the god's cheek, wiping away his tears.

"I'm sorry," he said once more.

This time, Shivaroth only closed his eyes, leaning into Ronan's touch with a tired sigh. "I am, too."

Ronan's vision danced. Shivaroth sat, unmoving, before him. Up ahead, Wynne called his name.

"We're ready," she said, voice raised over the storm. Shivaroth stood and helped Ronan up, letting the prince lean against him with a dependence that would have been concerning had it been any other day, any other pair.

Ronan's eyes caught on the bonfire.

"Wait," he whispered.

They burned Aevar's body before they departed, acting on Ronan's command. The rain stopped long enough to allow the element he had loved so dearly to devour him whole.

Ronan watched his hair join the flame, matching its vibrance, before it too blackened and fell to ash.


	13. XIII. Mind Asunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as the circle retreats to the home of an old friend, ronan's mind refuses to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: hallucinations, unreality

The road to Terr'Havel was not an easy one.

They rode until the night bled into morning and the morning back into night. Ronan's eyes remained open through it all, his body weak and mind ghosting through reality while his heart pounded as if it had adrenaline to spare.

He dreaded what he would dream of if he let himself sleep.

He sat with his back against Wynne's chilled chestplate. She had taken the reins with a confidence he never could have mustered, and he let his eyes wander over the winter terrain. He didn't speak with the others, hardly daring to breathe above the winds that howled in a way that he could have sworn was almost human.

Every part of him was in agony. His stomach, most notably—he had been effectively cleaved apart only hours prior, and now his body seemed unsure of how to act at the prospect of being whole again. Then there were his hands. They were red and raw where Aevar's blood had stained them, and burned as if someone was holding a brand against his skin.

There was something wrong with him externally, that much was obvious, but he was beginning to fear his mind even more. The voices, faint as they were, had not vanished. No one else reacted to their words, no one knew they were present. It was all within him.

" _God-child_."

" _Avok'Shai_."

" _Star-reader_."

" _Blind King_."

" _Herald_."

" _Dear one_."

The last one was different. Tangible.

"Dear one." It spoke again, and Ronan jerked upright, eyes falling on its source—not a specter, not a voice. Shivaroth.

"Look at me." The god had pulled his mount up beside Wynne's, and his eyes held a suspicious gleam. Ronan turned his head sluggishly, meeting his gaze. "There is something wrong."

"My head hurts," Ronan offered, his words an unconvincing whisper. He could hardly hear over the swell of the voices within him. His mouth moved faintly, letting out a jumbled stream of incomprehensible responses to their endless queries and epithets, and Shivaroth stiffened.

"What did you say?"

"I'm tired."

"Ronan, you—"

"Please, Shivaroth." His voice broke. "Just wait."

Shivaroth eyed him, and the swell of paranoia that rose with the god's stare nearly choked him. He knew. He had to know. Could he hear? Those voices, maybe they were audible to him. He was a divine being, after all, couldn't he hear them?

"As you wish," Shivaroth said after a moment. His face softened. "You are shaking, dear one."

"Am I?" Ronan's voice was faint, far away. He looked at his hands. They shook as he watched, true to Shivaroth's gentle words, and he shut his eyes. The voices rose with his lack of sight.

"Keep him steady," he heard Shivaroth murmur to Wynne. "I will speak with him when we arrive."

"I will," Wynne said. "And Shivaroth?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you. For all you have done."

There was a pause. "Of course."

The horse pulled ahead. The lack of conversation plunged him back into the voices. They were no longer coherent; any structure they had once held had crumbled, leaving broken syllables that continued to grow in volume. He exhaled with a low moan, raising weak hands to his face. He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing himself to take shallow breaths. His body continued to shake.

"We'll be there soon, Highness. You'll be alright."

He couldn't manage a reply. Somewhere ahead, Zia and Acaeus were forcing half-hearted conversation. He focused on it, drawing his attention from his treacherous mind and its treacherous whispers.

"We get out of this," Zia was saying, "and I'm off to join the pirate fleet."

Acaeus snorted. "You wish."

"They'd let me in!" He could hear Zia's grin. "I'd be a better pirate than you ever were."

"Oh, that's not the part I doubt," Acaeus said. "I've seen you fight."

"You could come, too." Zia laughed at the idea, low and only half joyous. "And Ronan."

"Two royals deserting their countries together, hm? And what would that make me, a third wheel?"

"A first mate."

"Who's captain?"

"I am," Zia proclaimed. "Obviously."

"And Ronan?"

Upon Acaeus' question, they went silent. He could only assume they were looking back at him.

"I—" Zia's voice broke. "Oh, gods, Acaeus."

"Hey." Acaeus lowered his voice. "He'll be alright. He's strong."

"But what if he—"

"He won't. He made it through his birthday, didn't he? He's not dying."

There was another pause. Ronan began to think they were finished, that he would have to go back to the deafening roar that had grown in his ears, when Zia spoke.

"Look at him," she whispered. "Something is wrong."

"I know." Acaeus sounded like he was already in mourning. "I know, but he'll be okay. He has to be okay."

They fell silent, and the lack of sound was swiftly overtaken by Ronan's own cacophony. A tear slid down his cheek, fell against Wynne's chestplate, pooled in one of the grooves in the metal. A moment later and his shaking was no longer from exhaustion but from sobs that grew until his throat ached from staying silent.

"Wynne?"

"Yes, child?"

"Will you..." he faltered. "Will you sing to me? One of the songs you—you used to sing when I was young." The sound was too much. _Too much_. "It's so loud," he whispered. "Please."

"Loud?" Wynne's hands shifted on the reins. "I...of course. Of course."

They had fallen behind the rest. Wynne's voice was quiet, muffled by the forest and the snow it harbored, joining with the wind. She sang an old bard's tale of love and glory, carrying the hope and joy of an explorer on the open sea. It was a story, Ronan noted, that didn't end in tragedy. He hoped that this song, the one about the sailor, was not too far out of his reach. That those around him, at least, would come out unscathed.

He knew there would be consequences for his actions. Aevar's blood burned him as they rode, he had not forgotten, he would not forget. He had killed a god. The whispers of _Avok'Shai_ , the blood, his hands, _Amon'Llyra_ , in their possession upon Shivaroth's request—all reminders of an inevitable fact.

As long as the retaliation was directed at him and only him, it would all be okay. It would all be worth it, even if he survived one god to die at the hands of another. If that was his fate, so be it. He would not continue to go down the line, would not kill another to save himself. Wynne was still singing, the voices within him still flowing, his heartbeat still treading onward. It was all the same, but it was different.

" _You are different_ ,"the voices hissed.

Perhaps he was.

"Make a left ahead!" It was Acaeus' voice, calling back. Wynne stopped singing. His eyes flew open, but he could no longer see the land they traversed, couldn't see the sky, instead seeing flame and fury and eyes, so many eyes, eyes and blood and metal—

"Ronan!"

His sight came back to him. The voices were silenced. His ears rang at the lack of sound, mind only registering Wynne's hand on his shoulder as he pulled himself away, dropped from the horse's back, and landed heavily on his knees. Wynne cursed and dismounted beside him, holding him up as he leaned forward and cried out, clutching his eyes—they were still bright with the flames that had momentarily seemed to swallow him. There were footsteps, running, and then another person at his side, whispering softly in the immortal language, Hjelohk, words that he understood perfectly.

" _Listen to me, Ronan, listen. It was a headache. Tell her it was a headache_."

He raised his head, locked eyes with Shivaroth, who had spoken. He did not ask how he had understood words beyond his scope of knowledge, but spoke instead, quiet and raw.

"Headache," he managed. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Wynne said, though behind her words was something else. "Don't be."

Her hand came up to run through his hair, and he kept his eyes on Shivaroth, whose face was as grim as stone. The god reached out a hand and pressed it against Ronan's chest, over his heart. He murmured something else in Hjelohk _,_ another thing meant only for him.

" _You are strong enough to face this_." The words were melodic to his ears: _en te vakh'emon ti a'hok soh_.

Wynne glanced between them; Ronan didn't respond. Acaeus was watching with poorly masked concern from ahead, with Zia beside him.

Thunder rumbled overhead, and Acaeus' horse startled beneath him. "Easy," the knight murmured. Raising his voice, he called out once more. "We need to move."

Wynne nodded, working with Shivaroth to get Ronan on his feet and back on their shared horse. As Wynne was about to get back on, Shivaroth held out a hand with a meaningful look.

"It may be best if I were to ride with him."

Wynne's eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. "And why's that?"

"There are things that the prince and I must discuss."

Wynne looked up at him, and Ronan nodded through half-lidded eyes. The confusion had become too much, along with the pain. Too much, too much.

"He's telling the truth."

The knight shot one more glance between them before nodding and mounting Shivaroth's horse.

"Alright," she said. "Keep him safe, Dreamweaver."

Shivaroth bowed his head. "Always."

The god slid a bare foot into the stirrup and pulled himself up behind Ronan, urging the horse forward once he had his good hand wrapped around the reins. Ronan wavered for a moment before slumping back against him. They took the originally intended left, but Ronan's shoulders only tensed further, until Shivaroth finally spoke.

" _You must tell me what happened_." It was in Hjelohk. The fact that Ronan still understood it, that it hadn't been some fluke associated with the hallucinations made his breath catch.

"I can't speak Hjelohk," Ronan said. If he said it, it might be real.

"You can." Shivaroth switched languages halfway through. " _I've heard it. Trust yourself_."

Ronan shuddered. His lips formed the words without his permission. " _You must tell me what this is_ ," he hissed. " _Please_." The words were alien to his tongue— _en meja shi'va akra soh ei, ti'ra._

" _That will come later. Tell me what happened_." Shivaroth seemed to be infinitely more comfortable speaking in his mother tongue, leaving Ronan at a disadvantage. He shook his head.

" _I could hear voices_ ," he whispered. " _So many at once_."

" _Whose?_ "

" _I don't know_."

"Both of you," Zia said from ahead. "Quiet for a moment." Ronan obeyed, and Shivaroth's fingers tightened around the reins in anticipation.

The group halted as Zia held up a hand, looking up at the sky, listening for the source of her apprehension. Their faces were upturned to the rain, waiting, anxious. Ronan let the water run over his skin, and flinched at the thunder that shook his bones.

Something was wrong, they all felt it. Where the source of the wrongness was, however, none of them could say. Perhaps it was the sky itself. Perhaps the ground. The mountains that rose tall and silent in the distance. Whatever it was and whatever it wanted with them, it sparked an unspeakable urgency.

"We need to keep going," Wynne called from ahead. "It's not far now."

They spurred their horses on. Ronan and Shivaroth remained silent this time, dwarfed in the eyes of the presence they had all sensed.

They reached the Midlands early the next morning.

The ground was a dull brown-gray, green in some places were the grasses and plants had survived the storms and the winter. Everything spoke of endurance, nothing more than survival. Nothing thrived in the Midlands, no plants sprung up of their own accord until the spring, until it was much too late. The only thing that seemed to point up was the towering stone estate in the distance, set upon a hill, flying no banners.

"Terr'Havel," Wynne murmured beside them. Her hands were shaking. She had not been this close to the one she loved in years, which Ronan couldn't help but feel at least partially responsible for.

Terr'Havel must have been named by someone with a passion for the obvious. The green stone of its namesake was more than evident as they drew near—moss lined the stone manor and vines climbed the rare places it hadn't yet touched, giving it a comfortable, forested look. Against the black sky, it was striking. Against the flames that continued to resurface in his memory, it was a sanctuary.

He was surprised to find that the area around them wasn't deserted as the rest of the land had been. Far in the distance, two children ran alongside a dog, while nearer to them a man was crouched down in the sparse foliage picking what herbs he could. There were more on the horizon, as well as the silhouette of a small village nestled in the hollow of the hills. His people still had a life here, they had not yet been driven out by the war or death. Perhaps they chose to ignore it, or perhaps it was something that had simply never touched them. It was a rare sight; peace in wartime. He embraced it with a welcoming touch, and prayed that his presence wouldn't cause them to suffer as it had for so many others. But Aevar was no longer at his heels; maybe that meant that for now, at least, the war would not ensnare him. It would not follow him as it had before.

Beside the peace, however, there was a distinct feeling of tension. The air was as rigid as Wynne's bowstring, and cut with a chill. The rain hadn't stopped, and Ronan couldn't shake the feeling that this was all for Aevar, all a mourning ritual meant for a god, carried out by the elements themselves.

The ache in his chest told him that he, too, mourned the loss of the Chaos-Bringer. There was something within him that cried out, even now, at the thought of the god's lifeblood staining his hands and the light fading from his eyes. Aevar had tried to kill him, yet Ronan could no longer hate him. Not when they had been bound in their fate side by side, not when they had been condemned together.

In many more truthful ways than he could have admitted years ago, Aevar was more like him than any member of his Circle. They were opposites in many ways, yes, but his death had seemed to soften his figure enough for Ronan to see himself within him.

Both chained by Fate. Both doomed, in one way or another.

He couldn't shake his fear. It shouldn't have happened this way. There was going to be a retaliation—there had to be.

"Shivaroth?"

"Yes, Ronan?"

"I need you to promise me something." Wynne glanced back as he spoke, so he lowered his voice to a breath and slid into Hjelohk. " _I'm begging you_."

" _Promise you what?_ "

" _If things go south—farther south—promise me you'll get everyone to safety_."

" _And what of yourself?_ "

" _This is not about me_." Ronan turned despite the agony that remained pooled in his stomach and chest, meeting Shivaroth's eyes with an undeniable strength. " _If something happens, you take the others and go. You leave me, you protect yourself, you protect them. Promise me, Shivaroth. Promise me that you will put your life, theirs, above mine_."

"I cannot do that." Shivaroth spoke in Adacian. His eyes were sorrowful, his brow furrowed. "Ronan, you cannot ask me to do that. You—you are too important—"

"To who?" He shook his head. "My people don't need me, they think I'm already dead. This land is lost, Shivaroth, to who—"

"To them!" Shivaroth pointed to those that rode ahead of them, frantic, then took a breath and spoke softly. "To me."

Shivaroth pulled back on the reins, letting their mount fall back behind the others. "I need you to listen to me."

"Only if you promise." His voice broke in desperation.

Shivaroth shook his head quickly. "Your life is invaluable, but we are not willing to give our lives for you simply because you are important to this realm's path. We care for you, truly, and our willingness to protect you comes from that. It is not your rank, your role, or your prophecy. It is _you_ , Ronan."

"This," he repeated, gritting the sentence out with a tense jaw, "is not about me. Your four lives will always be worth more than my one, do you understand? Please, Shivaroth." He was losing energy rapidly, but kept his fingers weakly curled in the collar of Shivaroth's coat. The god pried his hand away, lingering for a moment before letting it go.

"I promise," he whispered. "Though know this does not mean I will stop putting you first. If something happens, you are my priority. Not them. If all else fails, I will do as you ask."

Ronan exhaled, leaning back against Shivaroth's chest. "If that's what it takes, so be it."

With the liberation that came with the agreement, there came something else. Desolation. Panic. He knew what was coming, somehow. Knew that nothing good would come of his future. It was a distinct fear, one that sank its claws into the gray matter of his brain and held strong, but this time it was accompanied by something else: an inkling of a thought that wondered if perhaps if he had made it through his birthday, he could make it through this.

He turned his face toward the skyline as Terr'Havel drew ever closer. The clawed beast his skull harbored whispered in the voice of a woman, the same voice he had heard when the life was fading from his body.

" _Miira i'tai nahina_ ," she said. This time, he understood.

He understood, and closed his eyes.


	14. XIV. Exhale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as the circle rests, the gods remind ronan that he is still far from safety.

The gates of the manor stood in front of them an hour later. The sun had reached its peak in the sky, though it was nearly invisible in the heavy gray that had come over it. The rain still fell. Wynne was tense beside him, eyes hopeful, hands tight on her reins. Ronan managed a smile.

"Are you excited?"

"I've never been more excited for anything," Wynne whispered. "But gods, am I scared." Zia and Acaeus dismounted ahead of him, and Acaeus' face almost mirrored Wynne's. His hands were visibly shaking, and Ronan itched to reach out and extend support, but he could hardly manage to stay upright when Shivaroth helped him from the horse. The god kept a steady hand on his elbow as Acaeus led the horses into a stable and Wynne nearly ran to the doors.

The entrance was a towering, formidable thing. From what he remembered, it was the exact opposite of Liliana, but the perfect picture of her family. The doors stretched high above, arched and carved, with iron handles seeming to spew from the center like a frozen waterfall. Wynne's hand raised and gripped the matching metal knocker.

She raised it once, brought it down. The sound was thunderous. She did it again, then again, then twice more in a frenzied burst. It was the same pattern she had taught Ronan when they had been discussing the code of the King's Circle, and he remembered it clearly. This one in particular had a meaning he had burned into his memory: _I am not the enemy_.

They stood for a moment. Zia came to stand beside him, and Acaeus next to Wynne. Shivaroth craned his head back and studied the high stone arches. Just as Wynne began to bow her head and draw back, one of the monstrous doors swung inward, revealing a petite woman with bright eyes. She was just as Ronan had remembered her—a bit older, perhaps, with streaks of silver mixed in with the long black of her hair and a touch more command in the way she held herself, but it was her.

Her eyes widened. Her hand fell from the door handle.

"Wynne," she whispered. "Oh, Wynne—"

She flung herself forward and Wynne surged to meet her, the two connecting in a firm embrace. Liliana pressed her face into Wynne's shoulder, and the knight returned the hold with a trembling grip.

"I'm here, Lili." Wynne drew back, pressed a kiss to Liliana's temple. "I'm sorry it took me as long as it did."

Liliana raised a hand, trailed her thumb over Wynne's cheek, taking her in. She was muddy, her hair drenched and her face gaunt, but the love Liliana's eyes held was enough to restore all the warmth their party lacked. She stood on her toes, leaned up, and drew Wynne into a kiss, deep and somber. They pulled away after a moment, reluctant and timid, relearning each other, both desperate to map the new scars and bruises that littered the other's flesh.

But Liliana turned. Looked past Wynne, met Acaeus' anxious eyes, and clapped a hand over her mouth. Acaeus stepped forward and Liliana pulled him into a wordless hug, a grin spreading over her face. After a moment, she stepped back. Acaeus seemed to try to follow as she pulled away, bare and cold without Liliana's protection. He looked lost. Small against the Midlands. When Liliana turned and surveyed the rest of them, he moved away, ducking behind Wynne.

"Ronan," she said when she saw him, obvious concern on her features. "It seems you have overcome fate, Your Grace."

"And you," he smiled sadly. "You have overcome a war."

"Not overcome." Liliana winked. "Dissected. I know the ins and outs of it all, there's no coincidence about it."

"I'd expect nothing less," he replied. "After all, I've seen kings pale at the thought of a good informant."

Liliana's eyes shifted to Shivaroth, who offered her an awkward bow at the waist while still attempting to hold Ronan upright.

"I am Shivaroth, _Se Riha._ We have not met." The words were odd on the god's tongue. He winced, and added, "I believe that is the Adacian title." He glanced at Ronan for confirmation.

" _Sze Riha_ ," Ronan murmured, a minute correction, "is 'my lady.'"

Liliana waved it off. "You're going to be staying for a while, I assume, so you can drop the formalities." She shook her head, and murmured something to Wynne that made Ronan smile.

"When did you start picking up stray gods, my dear?"

"If I knew," Wynne said with a shrug, "the last few weeks would have been significantly less confusing."

Liliana's gaze finally landed on Zia, who followed Shivaroth's example and led with a bow.

"We haven't met either," she said with a warm smile, "but Wynne has told me about you. It's an honor."

"This is Zia," Wynne clarified. "Queen of Esadon."

"If I had known I would be harboring royalty, I would have cleaned up a bit." Liliana returned the bow. "The honor is mine, Queen Tentras."

"Please, just Zia. I'm no queen today." She gestured to her torn clothes and muddied boots, grimacing. "That may be preferable at the moment."

"Nonsense." Liliana stepped inside, and motioned for them to follow. Wynne stepped through first, followed by Zia, then Shivaroth and Ronan. Acaeus hesitated outside the doors before joining them, shutting them behind him with a menacing thud.

When Ronan turned, any sliver of thought that could have branded Terr'Havel as "menacing" was banished from his mind.

A grand, branching stairwell sat before them, lined with a deep green carpet and dark oak furniture. Torches and chandeliers lined the walls and ceiling, casting a warm glow on what would have been a cold place, and Ronan let himself relax.

"You fixed the place up," Acaeus said after a moment. "I like it."

"Yes, well, my father didn't leave me much to work with, but I did what I could." She began to walk, and after they had stripped off their boots and cloaks, they followed. She continued talking as she went. "I added books to the library, finally banished that damn scent of mildew, and managed to find a way to heat even the coldest wings of the manor." She turned and shot Acaeus a playful look. "And trust me, boy, that was no easy matter."

"I believe you," he said. "King's Reach was sorely lacking when it came to central heating." The Lesterium family estate, Ronan recalled. Acaeus' childhood home.

"King's Reach is in Rhydel," Liliana muttered. "Rhydel practically owns the sun for three quarters of the year, as if _you_ needed central heating."

Acaeus forced a chuckle. "Rhydellan cold is much different than Adacian cold, that's for sure. What we call cold, you call Summer."

Liliana seemed to catch the exhaustion in his tone. Her eyes lingered on the blood that stained the front of Ronan's clothes, too much blood for someone that was still upright. She was sharp; she pieced it together on her own.

"I'll get you some bathwater, Highness," she said softly. Ronan nodded his thanks while Liliana began to lay out a plan. "How about this. You're all bone tired, I'm sure, your eyes are hardly open. Get some rest, clean up. I'll have food out in the dining hall, but just...relax. Let out the breath you've been holding. We can have breakfast together in the morning, if you're up for it, and discuss whatever we need to discuss."

"Thank you," Ronan whispered. His head was spinning, his eyes alight with pain. He was in no condition to sit down and eat a meal, and even the promise of answers wasn't seductive enough to draw him toward a conversation. He needed silence, desperately.

"There are enough rooms for each of you, of course. Wynne, you can join me." She eyed Shivaroth and Acaeus. "Cae, you're welcome to stay in your old room. Shivaroth—" she cut herself off. "How should I...address you?"

"My name is perfectly alright," Shivaroth assured her. "Please do not trouble yourself over my presence."

"Sure," Liliana said hesitantly. "Shivaroth, you can take any room you like. Same for you, Your Grace." She nodded to Zia when she said this. "And since I'm at least half aware of your current track record, there's a back way out from the kitchen. Should it come to that, Wynne or I will know where to lead you." She stopped at the foot of the stairs, and Wynne stood close enough that their arms were pressed together. Her eyes lingered on Ronan, and when she caught his gaze she raised an eyebrow in a silent question.

"Go," he mouthed. "I'll be fine."

She paused. Nodded, grateful.

"Most of the more livable rooms are up the left staircase." Liliana smiled, tentatively taking Wynne's hand. "I'll leave you to it, alright? Let us know if you need anything. Acaeus knows where we'll be."

Liliana drew back, beginning to walk up the right staircase, leading Wynne by the hand; Wynne turned and smiled at him before following. The two began to speak quietly once they were out of earshot, and disappeared moments later. The four of them that were left let the tension drain from their shoulders gradually, half lost and half exhausted.

It was Zia that finally spoke.

"Someone needs to stay with you, Ronan," she murmured. "I don't trust you to stay upright on your own. As funny as it would be if you died falling down the stairs the day after you survived a prophecy, I'd much rather keep you breathing."

"Mm." The sound was non-committal. "You're probably right."

He desperately wanted to be alone. His ears wouldn't stop ringing.

Shivaroth began to open his mouth but Acaeus jumped in, his words rushed.

"I'll stay with him." He wouldn't meet Ronan's eyes. "Is that alright with you, Your Grace?"

Flashes of their last interaction in Illirium returned to him. The anger, the fear. He wondered if that had dissipated, or if there was more to come. More than anything, he wanted to know what Shivaroth knew of his situation, but he was fully aware that drawing more attention to their odd interactions would do neither of them much good.

"Of course." Ronan didn't look at Shivaroth as the god released his arm and waited for Acaeus to move to support him. He knew he would understand.

Before they could turn to leave, Ronan grabbed Shivaroth's shoulder.

"Tend to your wounds, will you?"

"They are nothing, Ronan, there is no cause for concern."

"Just..." he sighed. "Do it for me, alright? Take a moment for yourself." The words that remained unspoken between them were louder than the others. Ronan nodded to him, then turned to Zia. 

"Are you hurt at all?"

"Aside from a few bruises, I'm okay. Worry about yourself, Ro, we can catch up later."

"But you—"

"Get some rest." Zia's voice was gentle but stern. "I promise, we'll talk later."

Ronan studied her, then nodded. She looked just as tired as the rest of them, if not slightly more put together.

"Okay. Okay, yes. Later."

He was itching to ask her what happened, how she found them, if she was okay. Zia's expression betrayed nothing and Ronan gave in, allowing Acaeus to lead him up the stairs. Shivaroth and Zia remained at the bottom, whether to speak privately or give them space Ronan couldn't say.

Acaeus didn't speak as they traversed the hall, and Ronan kept his head down as they walked. He wasn't able to read Acaeus on a good day, let alone one where he was half asleep on his feet. By the time they reached their destination and Acaeus nudged the door open with his shoulder, the silence was grating and tangible.

Ronan winced as the door shut behind them, detaching himself from Acaeus' hold and staggering over to one of the two beds the room held. He eased himself down, perching lightly on its edge in hopes of leaving it unmarred by the blood and rainwater that coated his skin and clothes. Acaeus paced for a moment, then hesitated with his back to Ronan. The prince's eyes widened when the knight's shoulders began to shake. Acaeus' voice, small and hoarse, was meek beneath the ringing in his ears.

"I'm so sorry, Ronan."

From where he sat, he shook his head vehemently, concern pushing through his exhaustion. "Why are you apologizing?"

Acaeus turned and fixed Ronan with a haunted stare. "You were dying in my arms. I—I couldn't do anything."

"That's no fault of yours," Ronan protested. "Absolutely none. Your hand didn't drive the blade through my skin, Acaeus, you didn't do this."

"But you were _gone_ , Ronan. Your heart stopped for a moment. You died. You died, and the last time we'd truly spoken, I—I—"

Acaeus gritted his teeth and pressed his hands flush against his eyes. Ronan pushed himself up with a breathless wheeze, crossing the distance between them. He reached up, pulling Acaeus' hands from his face. The knight let him and tears spilled from beneath them, alien and raw on his skin.

Ronan opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and pulled the taller man into his arms. Acaeus returned his embrace with a desperation that Ronan was far too familiar with, the kind full of panic, of one clinging to another they felt was slipping from their grasp. His lower lip trembled, and he bit it viciously.

"None of this is your fault," he whispered against Acaeus' chest. "None of it."

"I need—" Acaeus pulled back and held Ronan's shoulders in shaking hands. His face had lost all color. "I need you to know that I forgive you. I—gods, I forgave you the second I stepped out of that cave. I trust you, I don't care about the blood ritual—"

"Acaeus." Acaeus stopped speaking, and Ronan pushed the white hair away from his face. They were both shivering, both soaked through by the rain and much too cold, and the tremor of emotion below it all made it difficult to keep their hands steady. "You have a right to be angry." He held up a hand before he could protest. "I did something dangerous, something foolish, and I'm sorry—but listen to me. I'm alive, you're alive, we're safe for the time being. Everything's behind us, yeah? Breathe. I'm not upset." Acaeus was stiff beneath his hands, every part of him tense and unyielding. A moment later he reluctantly gave in, letting his shoulders fall and his eyes drop.

"Okay," he whispered.

"Okay," Ronan echoed. He dropped his hands, moved back to the bed. His fingertips were warm where they had brushed Acaeus' skin.

"I'm going to get that bathwater from Liliana." Acaeus turned again, wiping tears from his face hastily. "And you—" Acaeus stopped midway to the door. "You're alright, aren't you?"

Ronan didn't speak. His ears still rang, the hallucinations were still fresh in his eyes. His skin was hypersensitive, his hands burned, his body ached. He looked at Acaeus, at his shadowed eyes.

"Yes," he whispered with a smile. "Just tired."

Acaeus looked at him like he knew better, but he nodded and ducked out the door. The moment he was gone, Ronan let himself fall apart.

His shoulders slumped, his stomach churned, and the agony he had been suppressing returned full force. His eyes filled with tears that spilled over a moment later, running down his cheeks to gather at the bottom of his chin.

It was all too much.

He had died but come back. Aevar had died and stayed dead. His ears rang, his vision danced from the light of a fire that hadn't been present, and his stomach burned with the lingering pain of Shivaroth's desperate magic.

"Gods," he whispered. "Oh, what have I done?"

He flinched when the woman's voice answered him.

" _You have committed an atrocity_."

"I know," he hissed aloud. "You think I don't know that? You think I'm proud of this?"

" _I think you secured your safety by destroying another's_."

Ronan put his head in his hands. There was a distinct sorrow in his demeanor. "I didn't want to kill him," he whispered. "I don't know what happened."

" _Your Fate drove your hand_."

"What are you saying?" The words were barely audible. His lip trembled. Before the woman could respond, Ronan heard footsteps outside the door. He wiped the tears from his cheeks and straightened up, begging the voices to leave him.

"Ronan?" Acaeus pushed the door open with his foot, having left it slightly ajar. "Were you saying something?"

"No." Ronan watched as Acaeus lugged a pail of steaming water over to the tub in the smaller room off to the side that held a vanity and varying accessories. He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as he reached up to undo the clasps of the cloak that rested over his shoulders. Acaeus glanced up and caught his eyes, brow furrowing in dismay.

"Let me do that." He poured the water in the tub, leaning away from the steam and standing, walking back over to Ronan and waiting for a nod of consent before he went to work on undoing the cloak. A moment later the cloth fell to the floor; Ronan was pliable and weak under Acaeus' hands, and the knight surveyed him with poorly concealed concern.

"Will you lift your arms?"

Ronan lifted them halfway, nodding, before a wave of dizziness hit him and his knees buckled. Acaeus caught him with a curse, lowering him back onto the bed and turning to rummage through the small pack he'd brought up with the water. When he turned back there was a small knife in his hands, which he used to slice through the front of Ronan's torn shirt. What remained of the fabric was tossed haphazardly onto the floor beside the cloak.

Wordlessly, Acaeus helped him stand and led him into the room with the bath. He turned to give him privacy, staying close enough that he could steady him if necessary.

"Let me know when you're in the water," he said softly. Ronan nodded, forgetting that Acaeus wouldn't see it.

He unbelted his pants first. Blood was caked into the strip of leather, and it was stiff beneath his fingers. He slung it over the back of the chair at the vanity, letting his pants and undergarments slide to his ankles before stepping out of them. He tentatively stepped in the water a moment later, letting his breath out in a hiss at the heat when he sank down into it.

"Can I turn?"

"Yes," Ronan murmured.

Acaeus seemed to gather himself before doing so. When he finally made his way into the room, his eyes lingered on Ronan's chest and stomach.

Ronan followed his gaze.

His waist, slim and unassuming, was a mottled mess of scar tissue and bruising. Aevar's initial blow had been jagged and rough, tearing into the organs beneath, but it was Shivaroth's unbalanced magic, while well intentioned, that had driven home the damage. The scar was wide and thick, raised to the touch, and ran the length of his torso. Parts of it sported burns he assumed were from the desperate overuse of magic, and there was a smaller, neater scar off to the side that marked the wound he had sustained in Illirium.

Acaeus glanced away, looking slightly ill. Ronan trailed his thumb along its path, shuddering at the raw discomfort.

As Acaeus grabbed a bar of soap from the vanity, Ronan rested his hands in his lap. The water had already turned a dull rust-brown from the blood, even while more remained on his skin. He was caked in it, both his and Aevar's, and he worked at scrubbing what had not come off initially from his hands.

"What do you need me to do?" Acaeus pulled the chair over to the tub and Ronan's memory turned back to when he had done this exact thing for Acaeus in Illirium, and not for the first time. Both had long since grown used to washing the blood from the other's skin.

"Anything I can't reach, if you would." Ronan shifted. "Hair, back. As long as you're willing."

"Of course." Acaeus spoke in a way that told him it had never been a question. He dipped a cloth in the water, ran the soap over it, and began to run it over Ronan's freckled neck and shoulders. The action was soothing, the repetition something he yearned for, and he leaned back into the touch, relaxing further when Acaeus rested a hand in the crook of his neck with just enough pressure to be comforting but not oppressive.

"Acaeus?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask for your advice? As—as a prince, not a friend."

Acaeus paused, squeezing out the cloth with his free hand before shifting to work on the rest of his back. "You chose the most personal situation to ask for impersonal advice," Acaeus said with a chuckle. His tone turned serious. "But yes, always."

Ronan pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trailing his hand over the grain of the wooden tub as he pieced his thoughts together.

"If you were me—if you were in line for the throne—what would you do? Your people think you're dead, but so do your enemies. There's a war you don't have the manpower to win. The gods are at your heels. Where would you start?"

"Oh." Acaeus tapped his foot against the floor with no discernible rhythm. "I think that may be a question for Wynne."

"Perhaps, but I'm asking you."

Acaeus put the cloth down on the edge of the bathtub, ignoring the subtle dripping of the water hitting the floor. "Speaking frankly," he said slowly, "as a king, your first priority is your people. I would focus on the war and the things directly responsible for their suffering immediately after we sort out this mess with the pantheon. Your people need hope—they need to know you're alive, but your enemies need to be kept in the dark. You can use your prophecy to your advantage. Start rumors in cities, tell people that you're still alive; those looking for hope will believe them, your enemies will see them as nothing but folly."

It struck him as rather amusing that his "death" was a tactical foot up. He let out a breath that was almost a chuckle, and when Acaeus asked what was funny he just shook his head.

"Staying dead doesn't sound horrible," was all he said. Acaeus nodded and began to rub water into Ronan's hair.

"I'm sorry you have to go through all this."

"It's nothing to be sorry about," Ronan said. "You get this sort of understanding when you're raised as a royal—your life will be hard in some ways, easy in others. The hard part, for me, just ended up being this. A prophecy, a war, an endless winter."

"A sword in your stomach," Acaeus continued. "A god's brand, an army that wants your head. When's that ease supposed to come back in?"

"I don't know." Ronan shook his head. "A few years. Never. Who's to say." The soap that Acaeus began to lather into his hair dripped into his eyes, and he rubbed it away sluggishly.

He wished, for a moment, that people were not as complex as they were. That wars could be stopped with a word and the raise of a hand. But Adacia's history with Rhydel was a repetitive one; the treaties had always fallen through, the armies had beaten themselves to death against one another time and time again, and there had never been a true victor. The one initiating the conflict was sometimes Rhydel, and sometimes Adacia. Often, no matter who started it, the reasoning behind it was forgotten. In a few years it all looked insignificant.

The cause this time was similarly nondescript: Adacia's king had fallen ill and Rhydel had seen their chance to get the throne.

That was all. In twenty years, it would be forgotten with the rest.

The optimistic side of him zeroed in on Acaeus. He was a Rhydellan noble; born and raised an hour or so from Val Erso, the capital city. He'd grown up hearing tales about Adacia's evils, as Ronan had heard of Rhydel's. Yet when offered a position at Ronan's side, the man had readily accepted, and had not once wavered. They were proof that there was a common ground between their people.

When he finally spoke again, it was to ask another question.

"Do you think there can be peace?"

"I think," Acaeus said after a moment, "that an understanding can be reached. Let the rest come after that."

Acaeus wordlessly moved Ronan's head back and rinsed the soap from his hair. He shut his eyes and sighed deeply. The steam that was still rising off the water was soothing, a gentle touch to juxtapose the pain he felt was consuming him. His head still throbbed, but it was all softer. More gentle.

He realized after a moment that he was half asleep in Acaeus' hands.

"We should get you to bed," Acaeus whispered. An undeniable panic began to spread from Ronan's core, and he jolted upright.

"I can't sleep."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I can't sleep," he repeated. "I can't." He couldn't see the fire again. Even worse, he couldn't see the very real and very tangible corpse of Aevar, which still had not faded from his mind. He doubted it ever would.

"Try," Acaeus said. "I know this feeling, Ronan. Certainly not to the same degree, but I've killed people. I know that sense of dread. The remedy isn't to stay awake until you collapse— even half an hour is better than none, and I'll stay nearby if you need me."

Ronan wanted to say that the killing wasn't the whole of it, but until he understood what was happening himself, he couldn't make Acaeus worry more than he already was.

He couldn't say no without more questions, so he nodded. Acaeus stood, putting a towel over the back of the chair he had been occupying and moving back to the doorway.

"See if you can stand. I'm going to go get you fresh clothes."

Ronan nodded, and Acaeus left the room. Once he was gone he put his hands on the edges of the bathtub and lifted, pushing himself from the water with a groan. He stepped from the tub and braced himself on the back of the chair as his legs began to shake. He snagged the towel and wrapped it around his waist, unable to manage anything else.

He sat down on the edge of the chair and shut his eyes.

The floor was cold on his bare feet, but he reveled in the sensation, grateful for something that cut through his stupor. It was enough to keep him awake; sleep wasn't something he could avoid for much longer, but as long as there was the option, he was going to take it.

By the time Acaeus returned with the clothes, he was slumped sideways, dangerously close to falling to the floor. Acaeus cursed.

"You need rest. This is non-negotiable, alright?"

"Mm." He nodded. The whispers had started again, but he simply rose from the chair in a haze, allowing Acaeus to towel him dry before pulling on the shirt and undergarments he was offered. Acaeus helped him to his bed before pulling back to sit on his own. He had a book in his hand, and he gave the prince an encouraging smile.

"I'll be here," he promised. "Get some sleep."

Ronan's resistance bled away as his eyes closed. Any thoughts of fear or foreboding that had made his heart pound earlier bled away, leaving him bone-tired and heavy with sleep. As Shivaroth was mortal, he would not be able to Dreamwalk; for once, this was something he was grateful for. The promise of nothing but darkness, free of the pain and the voices, soothed him. He chose to ignore the possibility of anything else, letting himself slip away until his breathing evened out to a low, shallow pace and his heart slowed.

A familiar feeling gradually overtook him.

He was asleep, yet not. He could feel every tendon, every muscle, every inch of his body inside and out. His eyes behind his eyelids, his organs, his bones. All of it.

He opened his eyes.

He was on his back as Acaeus had left him, but his eyes landed not on the ceiling but the open sky. His breath was driven from his body harshly by way of a force unseen, and moments after the heel of a foot was pressed hard against his throat. He struggled, rolling sideways and staggering to his feet.

The being that met his eyes made his blood run cold.

" _Aevar saw something in you_ ," it said, its hollow voice carrying the signature melody that came with speaking Hjelohk." _You are quick on your feet, but nothing special. It is ironic that he fell to such an unworthy foe_."

Ronan said nothing. His limbs were still heavy— he was asleep, he remembered. He was asleep, but he was not.

He glanced around in a panic. This was not Serenvah; it was forested with fir trees instead of willow, cold and dark. There was no wind blowing. A haunting howl echoed through the grove, and Ronan shuddered. He knew enough of Feihjelm's history from Shivaroth to know where he was, who he was facing. He stood in the Godswood, the location of the shattered Void Gate, which meant this could only be one person: the god of the hunt.

"Felhan." Ronan met the god's eyes. His skin was odd, cracked and brown-green, almost perfectly resembling the trunks of the fir trees around him. He had six eyes, all black and shiny, and dark hair that fell around his shoulders. He bore no warpaint as Aevar had, and no markings as Shivaroth did.

" _You look afraid_."

Ronan held his ground, ignored the comment.

" _Did you bring me here?_ " To his dismay, his voice shook.

" _No_." Felhan sighed." _No, unfortunately your actions have unraveled something beyond just your realm. You are here because you must be. I am here because you are. It is an odd, irritating cycle, but it happens to be your fault and yours alone, so at the very least I do not have to worry about blaming myself_."

" _How happy for you_ ," Ronan muttered.

Felhan moved with an inhuman grace; he paced back and forth before him, feet bare and leaving only a slight imprint on the moss he tread upon. " _There is something_ ," he was saying, " _that the star-readers didn't see. You may be the one of prophecy, but you are young and naive. Shivaroth has been blinded by his affection for you, he can no longer see the folly of staying by your side_."

" _What are you saying?_ "

" _I am saying_ ," Felhan continued, light and airy in an uncomfortable contrast to the way his eyes were roaming Ronan's figure as if he were already a corpse, " _that you killed someone we loved. You killed family. And beyond that, you have corrupted another, you have taken from us one of our most treasured, and turned him into some weak, detestable creature_."

" _I have done nothing to Shivaroth_ ," Ronan hissed. " _He is with me of his own accord_."

" _He is with you because he does not know what is coming. Because he is too young to know any better, despite his memories from before his death_." Felhan shook his head. " _It is miraculous that you made it this far. You have survived so much, yet you hold yourself with such timidity. You are not worthy of Shivaroth's protection_."

" _This seems like an issue to take up with him, then_."

Felhan stalked forward, his long fingers curling around the front of Ronan's shirt. Long nails scraped against the skin of his chest, and he let out a shuddering exhale as the god leaned in so his nose nearly brushed Ronan's own.

" _I have been trying_ ," he muttered. " _He will not answer. If you are here, however, you may be able to help me after all_."

A wary haze settled over Ronan's mind.

" _And how would I do that?_ "

" _Stand still_ ," Felhan said, " _and let me kill you_."

Ronan's breath caught in his throat. Felhan shoved him back against the trunk of a tree, shaking the boughs above them. He cried out at the pain, the agony of the blow radiating out to his fingertips, making his heart skip a beat.

It was just a dream, he reminded himself. Felhan's fist struck his nose, and he tasted blood in his mouth. He steeled himself.

It was just a dream. He couldn't be killed. The pain was as real as it would get.

He took the beating. Every blow came quicker than the last, until finally he was limp in Felhan's hold, half-slumped against the tree. There was nothing he could do to remove himself from the god's grasp, nothing he could do to wake himself up. His head spun, and the dull colors of the Godswood began to bleed together. He wished the air was not so still. The world fell out of focus when Felhan drew a short blade from his belt and raised if above his head.

Ronan watched it fall without flinching. There was a determined gleam in Felhan's eyes, one that shifted to triumph a moment later when a force of magic belonging to someone undoubtedly powerful threw him back, ripping his hand from Ronan's throat and sending him skidding a good ten feet away. Felhan landed on his feet and Ronan staggered forward, crashing to his knees and putting his hands to his throat, gasping for air. The wielder of the magic that had saved him was tangibly present behind him.

" _You are not to harm him_."

He relaxed. He knew that voice, and knew the being that walked slowly and deliberately across the wooded ground, coming to rest between he and Felhan. Ronan wiped the blood from his nose and pushed himself to his feet, his heart pounding.

It was undeniably Shivaroth. The voice, the eyes, they all confirmed what the feeling in his chest was telling him, but he looked different. He was taller, regal, his pointed ears adorned with gold jewelry. The burns on his wrists had vanished along with any other recent sign of hardship. His hair danced around him as it had in Serenvah, and the markings on his face and chest, previously static and bold, depicted moving shapes and figures.

It was Shivaroth, but he was not mortal here. Just as Ronan knew he could not be killed in this realm, he knew that Shivaroth was something more than himself in the Godswood, something sacred and untouchable. He nodded to Ronan, deep and knowing.

" _You are being insolent_ ," Shivaroth muttered, turning slowly back to face Felhan. The other god seemed to shrink before him, but raised his chin in defiance.

" _And you foolish. You have betrayed your family_."

" _Family?_ " There was a dangerous edge to his words. " _When was the last time we were anything more than a divided court?_ "

" _The divide need not exist, Shivaroth. Aevar is dead, and with him your contract to the Blind King. I know you loved Aevar—you were brothers in arms, closer than we ever were. I also know that you hold yourself responsible for his fall. I do not, brother. I know the mortal drove the blade. You can come home_."

Ronan's heart nearly stopped. Shivaroth tensed. He did not speak, did not move. The Godswood seemed to hold its breath alongside those it cradled in its grounds.

If this was true, if Shivaroth left, he didn't know what he would do. He would lose the one that had been at his side through the worst of his recent days; the mines, his death, his tears. There had been others, there were always others, but Shivaroth had _been there_. He had understood.

"Ronan." Shivaroth said his name after a moment of silence. He did not turn, and spoke in clear, unbroken Adacian. "Wake up."

The Godswood fell dark. He sank through the ground, through mud and stone and water, until he hit something solid, landing on his back. He couldn't quell his panic, not even when his eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright with a soft hiss as pain lanced through his body.

He was awake. There was no pain where Felhan had struck him, and he was grateful for that fact, glad that Acaeus wouldn't—

He froze, and turned to Acaeus' bed. It was empty, his book set haphazardly at the foot of it. His sword was gone, along with his armor. Ronan went cold. Logically, he knew nothing was wrong. Aevar was dead, and he was safe among friends. But the part of his mind the whispers had taken up residence in pushed him forward, and he rose from the bed with unsteady legs and a dizzying headache.

Terr'Havel seemed much less inviting on his own.

He made his way toward the door, opening it to find a dark, uninhabited hallway. The manor's demeanor had shifted to something darker, more menacing, and he was unable to tell if the chill in his bones was the air or something else.

He called the first name that came to his lips. Instinct. "Shivaroth?"

The panic was still there; abject terror at the thought of the god's departure. He was unable to tell if the dream had been just that or something else, something tangible and real. His head throbbed. He put a hand out against the door handle to steady himself, then stumbled forward down the hall.

The next time he called Shivaroth's name it was weak. His head was spinning and the corridor with it. A door opened behind him, and the voice that spoke was very obviously not that of the god.

"Ronan?"

He froze. The voice, that voice—it was everything. Everyone speaking at once, all his name, all in a small, questioning tone. It was his mother, his father, Aevar, Acaeus, Wynne, the captain of the Adacian guard, the duke of Rhydel, the voices in his mind—it was everything. The halls were dark and oppressive around him. He turned, expecting something horrible and grotesque—

And found Zia. Her eyes were half-open, one hand rubbing at the left, and she'd changed out of her travel clothes into a pair of soft-looking pants and a loose tunic with the chain holding her locket tucked beneath it. Upon seeing his expression she stepped forward, her own becoming one of concern.

"What's wrong?"

He couldn't manage anything more than a soft sob, and Zia crossed the distance between them as he curled in on himself, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and letting him clutch desperately at her shirt.

"Easy," she whispered. "You can tell me what's wrong, alright? Come on, Ro."

"Where—" he shuddered. "Where's Acaeus?"

"I don't know." She pulled back and hooked one of his arms over her shoulders, helping him back down the hall toward their rooms, quick to act even when exhausted. "But I'm sure he won't be gone long."

Ronan's jaw tightened as he tried desperately to stop his tears.

"Zia?" It needed to be asked.

"Yes?"

"Am I dreaming?"

The queen froze, looking him over with well-guarded eyes. "No."

"Promise?" He hated how much he sounded like a child. Hated the voices behind it all, and the flash of pity he received from Zia.

"You have my word." She paused. "You can come sleep in my room until Acaeus gets back, if that would make you feel better."

"Only if it wouldn't be too much trouble." He dropped his gaze. His mind was adrift, going from Acaeus to Shivaroth to Aevar and back again. His vision flickered as it had on the road to Terr'Havel and he saw an image in the blackness, one of a fortress too blurry to recognize. Pain arced through his eyes, and he ducked his head so Zia wouldn't see him wince.

Something was wrong. Something was deeply wrong.

He needed to find Shivaroth.

"No trouble at all. It'll be like when we were kids, yeah? Do you remember?" She spoke gently as she helped him through the door. He nodded, his body on the verge of collapse.

"Of course."

"That was before the betrothal. All of those visits, those diplomatic meetings. We treated them as any other child would; time for us to wreak havoc within the palace, whoever's we were in at the time. We were regular partners in crime." Zia removed his arm from her shoulders, easing Ronan into a sitting position on the edge of her bed. Their rooms were nearly identical, though Zia's was devoid of candlelight and had a single bed in the center, grand and fit for royalty.

His shoulders hadn't ceased their shaking.

"I'm glad we met," he said quietly.

"Me, too." Zia looked him over, a faint glimmer of moisture in her eyes, before she pulled back and walked to the other side, sliding into her side of the bed. "I wonder," she whispered. "What would have happened if our marriage had come to pass?"

"Peace," he murmured, laying back and closing his eyes. The voices rose and his surroundings fell away, but he was still aware of Zia beside him, strong and grounded and real. A tear slid from beneath his eyelid and ran into his hair.

"We would have brought peace."


	15. XV. Petrified Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in the midst of the group's tentative healing, shivaroth promises to keep a secret.

The sun greeted him when he woke. It was a curious feeling; he knew he should be dead and buried but the sun still rose and warmed his skin, treated him like something living and real. He took a breath, thanking it somewhere deep within his chest, and stared up at the ceiling.

Zia was breathing evenly beside him, not yet awake herself, and the events of the night before slowly bled back into his memory. The pain, the dream, the delirious wandering. The voices he had heard were gone now, much to his relief, but in their wake was an almost painful silence. Regardless of the discomfort, he would take it over hallucinations any day; he prayed that they had left him for good.

When he finally mustered the will to push himself painstakingly into a sitting position, Zia stirred beside him, an arm surfacing above the covers and stretching long and hard. She opened her eyes a moment later, bleary and confused.

"G'morning," she said after a moment.

"Morning." He rubbed his eyes, then pushed a hand back through his hair, which was soft and clean. He felt new, alive again, still in pain but no longer a shade that shifted with the wind.

Zia sat up beside him with a groan, yawning before she looked him over. "You look..." she took a moment to find the word. "Better."

"Less dead?" He ventured. Zia gave a half-hearted laugh.

"Yeah. Less dead."

Zia swung her legs over the edge of the bed, standing with reluctance and dragging her feet as she went to grab the clean clothes that had been placed on the chair across the room. She kept her back turned to him, and he looked down at the covers as she moved to change out of her nightclothes.

"Do you want to talk about what happened?"

"What about it?" Ronan's fingers curled in the bedsheets. "I was tired. That was all."

"You were confused about reality," she said softly. "That seems like something that shouldn't go undiscussed."

"Perhaps." He pushed himself up, sighing. Zia tossed him a pair of pants that he slid on gingerly, careful not to bend his torso more than he had to. He spoke again after a moment, when Zia had turned back around sporting a simple black tunic and pants belted at the waist with a red sash. "You know about the Dreamwalking."

"Of course."

The Aldrea line had possessed the ability to commune with their patron deities since the Great War. Each monarch had one god as their guide, and one alone. It was seen as a slap in the face to the believers in the churches who thought themselves more deserving, but the gods had long since gone silent. His father's patron, Hanwey, had stopped sending him signs when Ronan was but a child. Shivaroth's communication with him was a miracle in the eyes of many—no one had expected the crown prince to have a patron at all after the silence, especially not one marked for death.

"I had a dream last night. About one of the Seven."

"Who?"

"Felhan."

"Hm."

"He was angry. We fought, Shivaroth showed up near the end, and they spoke. It seemed just as clear as the rest of the world, Zia. I just needed to make sure that when I woke up it was all real."

She eyed him. "How can you tell? You believed me, but why?"

"You promised," he said after a moment. "And I trusted you. Now I can see it for myself—the feeling that comes with a dream isn't present, this is real."

"Do you think the dream was something more? Some sort of communication?"

"I don't know." Ronan stood with a slow exhale, recalling the terror and uncertainty of the night before. "I'd have to ask Shivaroth. It may have just been a dream."

Zia held the door open for him and they ducked out into the hallway, nearly blinded by the intensity of the sunlight. He turned to glance out a window—it was bright, certainly, but the rain still fell. He could tell it was getting colder; ice was beginning to form on the windows. He shuddered, having a feeling that this strange intersection of weather could not be a coincidence. 

"Cheery way to start the day," Zia said beside him. He nodded.

"Isn't it?" Ronan turned from the window and the strange tempest that raged beyond it, accepting Zia's arm as she offered it and hooking his through hers, grateful for the support. "I hope it calms down before we have to leave."

Zia sighed. "Do you think that will be soon?"

"I hope not. I think we all need a bit of rest."

Both of them, he realized, were entirely relaxed. Their guard was down. They were wearing socks but not shoes, their weapons had been discarded, and their armor forgotten. Perhaps it was foolish, but he didn't bring it to light. They needed to have a moment where nothing was wrong; he prayed this was it.

The hallways were empty, but voices echoed from down the stairway, hopeful and enthusiastic in that way that people were after avoiding something horrible. He couldn't make out the words but he visibly relaxed. Maybe this was okay. Maybe they could get through this yet. After all, he was alive. Something was wrong, yes, but he was still breathing. He would take the win where he could find it.

He stopped in his tracks before they could begin descending the stairs. Zia looked at him quizzically, but stayed silent. He spoke after a moment.

"You were the one that got us out, weren't you?"

Zia nodded. "I tracked you to the camp and waited for Aevar to leave with you. I'm—" her eyes were sorrowful. "I'm sorry I was late."

"You have no reason to apologize," he murmured. "You're the reason I'm alive, Zia."

"I'm also the reason Aevar had the chance to harm you in the first place. If I hadn't been so much of a coward, if I'd just rushed him—"

"You did the smart thing," Ronan said evenly. "You did things according to logic rather than fear." He smiled, but it wavered. "Besides, Acaeus is the type to rush in on a whim. Leave the recklessness to him."

Zia shut her eyes tight. "I know you're right," she said softly. "I do. But I can't shake the feeling. You know the one."

Ronan did. Zia averted her eyes. Ronan bit his lip, then spoke.

"You saved me," he whispered. "Not any god, not Fate. You."

Zia froze. Blinked. Through her shock she managed a sad smile, desperate to put humor to the stifling reality. "Sounds like you owe me big, then."

"Sounds like I do."

They descended the stairs in silence, both of them too tired and lost in thought to continue their forced banter. He wondered what would come of this bit of peace, and of the war that raged beyond the walls. He was alive, and no longer bound by his prophecy. His father and mother were dead. He had no siblings. That made him king, he realized, and as such, he had to put his people first. He could not stay in Terr'Havel forever.

The voices he had heard before were louder now, light and carrying. Zia led him to the door they spilled from, glancing at him and receiving a nod before she pushed it open.

The voices stopped.

Wynne and Liliana sat beside each other at a large table fit for a banquet, with Acaeus across from them. Shivaroth had taken up a seat at the head, far away from them. His head was bent over a book, his hair falling over his face so Ronan couldn't see his expression.

"You two are up late," Wynne said with a smile. "Neither of you have changed a bit."

Ronan wished that was true.

Zia left his side to take a seat by Acaeus, while Ronan took a seat on his other side, between him and Shivaroth. The god still hadn't acknowledged their presence.

Wynne and Liliana picked their conversation back up, something about knights and dodging responsibility, and Ronan spared a glance at Acaeus.

"Where did you go last night?"

The look of guilt that crossed his face was immediate. "I went to check the perimeter while you were asleep, just out of habit. I needed to make sure we were safe. I thought you were deep enough asleep that it would be alright to leave for a few moments. I'm sorry."

"No, don't be." Ronan shrugged, eyeing the food that adorned the tablecloth. "Truly. You were only doing your duty, it's not your fault that sleep didn't come as easily as we'd hoped."

"Still." Acaeus leaned forward and snagged a roll of bread, passing it to him with a nod. An odd restlessness seemed to plague him. "Know that I wouldn't leave you without reason, alright? You can trust me to have your back."

"I know, Cae. You don't have to prove yourself to me."

Acaeus looked as if he wanted to say more, but dropped it and looked away. They sat close enough on the bench that their shoulders brushed as he shifted, but neither of them pulled back. Zia caught his eyes over Acaeus' head, but he simply shrugged.

He glanced back at the table, tearing off a bit of the roll and chewing it tentatively. He was grateful that Acaeus hadn't given him anything else—anything richer than bread would have made his unsettled stomach rebel in an instant.

His gaze wandered, finally landing on Shivaroth. The god's wrist was still chained, and the burns beneath it were hidden by the sleeve of his coat. His silence was ominous.

"Shiva?" The god startled at the sound of Ronan's voice, and he looked up from his book blearily. His eyes were shadowed, his face pale. Ronan felt dread well up in him. "You look horrible."

"Overextended my magic," he murmured. "With the chain, there is no way for it to replenish itself, but it will not be long until it will be off. I will be perfectly alright, I assure you."

"Acaeus? How long?" Ronan turned back toward the knight, who let his magic rear up under his skin experimentally, the blue tendrils of light pulsing in his veins.

"Mm. Not terribly. Give me twenty minutes, and I'll get the cuff off."

"Thank you," Shivaroth said softly.

"It's nothing." Acaeus waved him off. "You're...I don't know. You're part of this. You deserve the same care as the rest of us."

"Even so," Shivaroth said. "It means more to me than you know."

Acaeus bowed his head in acknowledgement, offering a tense smile before returning to the plate of food before him. It mirrored Ronan's own meal—small, and of no substance. He must have been more unsettled than he let on.

Across the table, Wynne's attention finally turned to the younger members of the Circle. Her eyes lingered on Acaeus, but landed on Ronan after a moment.

"How are you feeling, child?"

"Better," Ronan said, grateful that the steadiness of his voice reinforced his claim. "Endlessly so."

A bit of tension bled from Wynne's shoulders. "Good. And you two?"

Acaeus shrugged. "Tired," he offered. Zia nodded her agreement.

"Me, too," she said. "But certainly better than before."

It was as if a collective breath had been released between them, one they hadn't been aware they'd been holding. After a moment Liliana leaned forward, resting her elbows against the table.

"Cae?" She spoke softly.

"Yeah?"

"Will you come help me with something in the back?" Wynne shot Liliana a questioning glance, but didn't speak. Acaeus glanced up and nodded.

"Of course." He stood from the bench, catching Ronan's eyes and smiling slightly as he did so. The two left the room without another word, and Zia scooted closer to make up the space between them, snagging something off of Acaeus' deserted plate.

"If we are discussing meetings," Shivaroth said from the end of the table, startling Ronan out of his daze, "I would like to ask Ronan to—"

"Yes," Ronan said immediately. "When?"

"After this, if you would."

"It would be my pleasure."

Shivaroth pushed himself up from the table, exhaling shakily as he straightened his shoulders.

"Meet me in the courtyard, then," he said once he had gathered himself. "And send Acaeus to find me once he is ready to remove this." He raised his arm, the broken chain clinking as it made contact with itself.

Wynne nodded. "I'll send him to you when he's done helping Liliana."

Shivaroth nodded, bowed at the waist, and made a swift exit. His presence lingered. Wynne met Ronan's eyes across the table, her face reflecting nothing but a stoic acceptance. She didn't give the restlessness in the room a chance to die down, and instead capitalized on it.

"Any orders for us, Your Grace?"

"I—" the formality caught Ronan off guard. "Rest up. Don't trouble yourself over anything for now, give yourselves a break."

"Sounds like a plan," Zia said with a smile. "You don't have much authority over me regardless, but it sounds like you're ordering us to relax, and that's certainly something I can get behind."

Ronan snorted, but kept his thoughts focused on Wynne. "You're free to do what you wish."

"Are you certain?"

"Positive," Ronan said. "Anything that we have to plan can come later, even if it's only a few hours from now. You...gods. You deserve a moment of peace, at the very least, and I'm not certain being in my presence will bring you many more of those."

"And yet," Wynne said, "I wouldn't trade it for anything."

They shared a look, and for a moment Ronan felt that same peace he was asking Wynne to savor. For the most part, they were all comforted by their situation. The hall was warm and welcoming. They were safe in a way that made it almost possible to pretend this was the way it was and not the unattainable way it was supposed to be.

There was a nearly intangible wonder in the air as he took a deep breath. He finished the bread before him, tuning into Wynne and Zia's conversation while not speaking himself. He was content with listening.

"And the state of things in Esadon?" Wynne was asking, fingers busied by the act of undoing her braid.

"A bit troublesome out east, but nothing I can't handle. The court has welcomed me more warmly than I'd hoped—I was worried about following my mother up, but they seem to think I'm fit for the job."

"Your mother was certainly quite a woman. I can see why it would be daunting."

"They all had so much respect for her, you know? She was powerful, she could command a room simply by being in it. I don't possess that same quality. I have to work to get to that point, and it's not easy. The court respects me for my strength, both of will and physical, but I'm not sure they have the same faith in me that they placed in my mother. And to be honest, Wynne, I don't blame them."

"That will all come with time, child. You are young, and you still have to learn the ropes. I'm positive that once you find your footing, you may even surpass their expectations."

Zia smiled. "I appreciate your confidence. I need a bit of that right now."

"Of course. And besides," Wynne shook her hair out over her shoulders. "You've already made impressive steps toward carving out a place for yourself. Sending forces to Adacia to combat Rhydel? That was an impressive show of power."

"Yes, but it was a show of power aiding the side that many think is losing." She glanced hastily at Ronan. "No offense."

He shrugged it off; she was right.

"Even so—your willingness to go up against Rhydel and Duke Khorus is admirable. They may see Adacia as weak, but many also see Rhydel's assault as unjust and cowardly. You're allying yourself with the just, and once Ronan is back in power, that allyship will not be only in spirit." Wynne spoke of impossibilities with the ease and conviction only one skilled in the art of royal advisory could have.

Ronan bit his lip. "That's assuming I can take back the throne."

"Well," Wynne said, "to my knowledge, no one currently holds it. The capital is unclaimed by either force, but they're all fighting over it. We both know that if anyone was after the throne, they would have gone—"

"To Ferenheld," Ronan finished. "But I doubt a tyrant would feel that they needed the Rite of Coronation."

"Perhaps." Wynne shook her head. "I'll have to ask Liliana, she'll know the goings-on in Adacia Proper. There's a chance that we can do this, Ronan, I truly believe that. Once you're free of the will of the gods, you can return Adacia to the way it was before it all."

"I hope so," he said softly. "But there is a good chance there will be divine retribution, Wynne, you must know that."

"Of course." The knight sighed. "It is impossible to ignore. The storms haven't ceased, I don't think they want us to forget."

"I don't think they have to worry about that." Ronan rubbed his eyes. "Forgetting isn't a luxury I possess."

The food before him was unappetizing. He was sure it was delicious; there were delicacies laid out before him, things he hadn't seen in months, but his stomach churned as if he was ill. As he sat, his vision swam, flickered, and he shook his head to clear it.

Zia's toe connected with his ankle beneath the table, and he looked up to find Wynne studying him with well-trained eyes. He had been silent for too long.

"Highness?"

"Apologies," he said, careful to keep his voice from betraying his anxiety. "I didn't sleep well. My point is that if you think we have a chance to take Adacia back, we must seize it, but we must also know that the gods will not make it easy. I have made an enemy of the pantheon, and they do not tend to forget their enemies."

"Perhaps Shivaroth could speak to them," Zia said slowly. "He's one of them, after all."

Ronan shook his head. "They want him to stand trial in Feihjelm. They wouldn't listen to him." Wynne's head shot up.

"On what grounds? Does he know?"

"He must. According to Aevar, he has broken very clear rules." Ronan picked up a cloth napkin and tugged at its tassels, studying the fine embroidered needlework, still beautiful even while the colors had faded from disuse. "Aevar said his crime was aiding me, but I must guess that kinslaying has been added to the charges. He instructed me in the killing of Aevar, I'm positive that they didn't take that lightly."

Again, he didn't mention the dream he'd had—he was unsure what he'd say even if he could bring it up without worrying his companions, as he still hadn't unraveled if the episode had any bearing on reality. He kept Felhan's words to himself.

" _I know the mortal drove the blade. You can come home_."

"Then it is likely that he has given up his seat in the pantheon," Wynne said, "or that they wish him to."

"Perhaps." Ronan rolled one of the tassels between his thumb and forefinger. "I don't believe I'm qualified to deduce the demands of the gods."

"Then he can't help," Zia concluded.

"Even if he can, he's done enough. Sacrificed enough." The sight of the wound on the god's arm was burned into Ronan's memory, and his current state was enough to make him shudder. "I can't ask him to risk more for my sake, he was never meant to be here to begin with."

The door opened abruptly, and Ronan looked up as Acaeus entered the hall without Liliana. He caught Wynne's eyes.

"Lili's in the library, says there's something you might want to see." Wynne nodded at Acaeus' words, standing from her side of the bench and bowing to Ronan and Zia. She smiled, bidding the three of them good day before exiting out of the same door Acaeus had come through. After she had gone, Ronan found his gaze drifting steadily back to Acaeus.

Now that the knight was standing, Ronan could see things that made him dizzy. Acaeus' shoulders were hunched and his clothes fit poorly; he had lost weight as he was sure they all had, and his face was gaunt and pale. Out of his armor he looked small, not quite broken but beaten down some. In spite of it all, he smiled with an unbelievable warmth when he saw Ronan looking at him, and walked over to rest his hands against the edge of the table.

"Shall we go unbind your god?"

Ronan bit his lip. "Are you...up for that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Acaeus rolled his shoulders back with a deep exhale, allowing himself to relax. "My magic has replenished itself enough, I can handle it."

"I don't think our dear prince is talking about your magic," Zia drawled, resting her cheek on her hand. "You look about as good as week-old horse shit."

Ronan winced. "I wouldn't exactly put it that way, but she's right. You look—"

"I can handle it," Acaeus repeated, firmer this time. It wasn't unusual for him to do this—in fact, there was no shortage of tales of Acaeus' reckless tendency toward heroism—but Ronan let it slide.

"Alright," he said after a moment. "But I'm stopping you if it starts to go south."

"I'd expect no less." Acaeus wandered over to the door. "I'm assuming you know where to find him?"

"Courtyard."

"Perfect. I'll meet you out there." He ducked out as quickly as he had come in, letting the door swing shut behind him. Ronan and Zia, both disconcerted, stayed still.

"He's going to work himself to death someday," Zia muttered. "The man needs to learn when to give himself a break."

"I worry about him sometimes," Ronan whispered. "Worry that he'll get himself killed somehow."

Zia waved him off. "Acaeus isn't that much of a fool. He can be reckless, certainly, but he would never do anything to deliberately endanger himself."

Ronan stood, his feet dragging as he gathered the courage he needed to advance to the courtyard. Zia caught his sleeve as he moved to leave, standing with him and staring him down.

"Tell me what's wrong with you first."

"You've never had qualms with being blunt," Ronan said with a sigh. "A useful quality for a queen, a troublesome one for her friend, who is tired and rather preoccupied."

Zia glared. Ronan caved. She had power over him, had since they were children. It had never been unwelcome or unkind, and stemmed not from fear or anything sinister but from a deep well of trust somehow different from his bond with any other.

"I'm hearing things."

Zia didn't falter. "What things?"

"Voices."

"Whose?"

"I'm not sure."

Zia released his sleeve but kept her hand half out, like she wanted to reach for him but couldn't bring herself to do so.

"Are you okay?" She asked finally, to which Ronan nodded.

"They've been quiet today. I'm hoping that perhaps it was a fluke, or something brought upon by the gods."

"Would it truly be better to have the Seven rifling through your mind?"

"If it meant I never had to live through that again," he whispered. His right eye was watering and he moved his hand up to rub it, but Zia caught it with a dismayed shake of her head.

"Don't. You'll only irritate it further." She used the hem of her sleeve to wipe away the tear that had fallen, sighing as she pulled back.

"Why don't you stay in my quarters again tonight? I can keep an eye on you, and Acaeus can do whatever it was he was doing without alarming either of us."

"That would be good." Ronan smiled, moving toward the door. "Thank you. And Zia, if you will—" he paused with his hand on the doorknob, "—keep this quiet for a bit, will you? At least until I have a chance to ask Shivaroth if he understands what's happening."

"Of course," Zia said with an exaggerated bow. "You have my word."

Ronan watched her turn and leave the room before he left himself, slipping out the door that would lead him to the courtyard.

He made his way to the front hall slowly, taking in his surroundings. Part of him was still convinced that somewhere in the forest beside Aevar's corpse he lay at the brink of death, that this was all something conjured up by the desperate mind of a dying prince, so he took in every detail and committed it to memory. The grooves of the stone, the rich green banners bearing the eye-and-dagger crest of the Tsu Rin family, the dusty carpeting beneath his feet. If this was an illusion, it was a damn good one.

While he moved gingerly and his torso still ached something horrible, he was on his feet and vigilant. This newfound alertness brought the grand, sweeping staircases of Terr'Havel's entrance into sharp focus. It reminded him of his home, though the palace had been crowded and bright and hung with blue instead of green. He had spent most of his time in the library tower that overlooked the northern seas. He missed it in an acute, vicious sense.

As he reminisced, he pulled on his boots and cloak, preparing himself for the biting winds of winter that bore rain that felt sharp enough to split his skin. He hoped Shivaroth had found somewhere shielded from the elements, as they'd all had enough of the cold to last a lifetime.

Ronan stared at the door for a moment, making a face at the thought of being drenched again, before he pushed it open and stepped outside.

The last time he had looked at the Midlands it had been through a panicked view—his eyes, though still slightly unfocused, were now much more attentive. Terr'Havel was cradled between rolling hills and sparse, wind-blown trees. The Midlands were not as snowy as the mountains or the northern part of Adacia, being the lowest point with the warmest temperatures. The area was essentially a large valley; around it, far in the distance, rose a jagged array of mountains, the ones that housed Solthorne and countless abandoned Old Adacian fortresses. The range was called the _Tamon'Sihra_ —the Shattered Bridge.

The rain beat against the hood of his cloak and soaked the few curls of hair that had come to rest over his eyes. When he ducked through the arches leading into the courtyard and its withered gardens, he lost his train of thought. There were marble statues of the Seven set up around the circular meeting area, each of them carrying something unique. His eyes fell on Aevar first, who carried _Amon'Llyra_ , unbroken, in one hand and a scale in the other, then on Felhan, who held a hunting horn to his lips and a rose to his heart, and finally on Shivaroth, whose hands were empty and extended on either side of his body, hands upturned toward the sky, raindrops pooling in the idol's carved palms.

The smaller, significantly more dynamic Shivaroth stood in front of the statue of Hanwey alongside Acaeus, at the far corner of the yard. Hanwey's eyes were open and serene, looking down at the dove that adorned one wrist and the raven, carved from obsidian or something similar, that claimed the other. Both Shivaroth and Acaeus turned at Ronan's approach, looking to him for direction.

He broke the silence almost reluctantly.

"Are both of you ready?"

Acaeus nodded. Shivaroth offered a quiet word of affirmation.

"I brought bandages for your wrist. They'll have to do until we can have Wynne or someone else look at it." Acaeus gestured to the bag slung over his shoulder before he took a deep breath.

Shivaroth's jaw clenched as Acaeus took his forearm in his hands, turning the god's palm up like the statue's and falling claim to an intense focus.

"Acaeus, if I may." Shivaroth's hand was shaking.

The knight glanced up and met Shivaroth's eyes. Ronan stood beside them, not close enough to disrupt but close enough to steady either one if they needed it.

"Go ahead."

"If you are capable...please make it quick."

"I'll do what I can." Acaeus steadied himself, took a deep breath, and let his magic rise to his fingertips.

The metal of the cuff reacted immediately, and Shivaroth bit his cheek as it began to heat. The rain turned to steam as it made contact. Acaeus' magic arced over it, over the runes and then into them, beneath them. The metal was red. Shivaroth swayed, and Ronan caught his good arm, holding him up as the metal began to split open at a slow yet steady pace. It groaned as it tore, finally breaking open entirely and dropping to the stepping stones below them with a dull thud. Shivaroth slumped against him, his eyes shut tight.

Acaeus and Ronan froze upon seeing the wound that had sat concealed beneath the shackle. The metal had burned past skin, then past muscle, until it hit tendon and bone. The skin around it was nearly white, and Ronan looked away.

"Hold your arm there for a bit longer. Don't look."

Shivaroth obeyed Acaeus' command, nodding slowly and working to keep his breathing even. Ronan shifted and held his cloak up so it shielded Shivaroth's arm from the rain. Acaeus dug a roll of bandages from his bag and a cloth with it, biting his lip as he looked over the wound.

"This will hurt," he warned.

"Do it," Shivaroth breathed.

Acaeus did. He pressed the cloth against the edges of the wound, drying what he could, and then wrapped the bandages around it swiftly. When he was done he let Shivaroth lower his arm and tug his sleeve back down. They all seemed grateful that the burn was hidden.

Acaeus retrieved the split runic cuff from the ground and slid it into his bag. His eyes darted between Shivaroth and Ronan before he nodded and bowed at the waist.

"I'll leave you two to it," he said. Ronan smiled at him, but Acaeus turned before he could see.

"Thank you," Shivaroth called after him, though Acaeus had already ducked out of the courtyard and out of their sight.

The abruptness of his departure was jarring enough to leave Ronan reeling. It was Shivaroth's voice that called his focus back, and with it the barrage of questions that begged to be spilled from his lips.

"There are important matters we must discuss," the god said. Ronan nodded intently. "I assume you have questions."

"The dream I had last night," he said without a moment of hesitation, "was that real?"

"Real enough," Shivaroth replied. "I was there, as was Felhan. How he reached you, I cannot say. I felt a pull from your subconscious, something I often felt in Serenvah, and I knew—"

"Just tell me." Ronan dropped his hood, and caught Shivaroth's hand in his own, his gaze intense and searching. "Are you going to heed his words?"

After a moment, Shivaroth said, "I am not returning."

"Truly?"

"Felhan does not speak for the court. He never has. Even if his words were sincere, the rest of the pantheon would likely have my head for what I have done."

At the same time that Ronan's heart soared, it sank. He could not say why until Shivaroth added a quiet amendment.

"That, and I will not leave your side before this matter is finished. I may not have come to Ishtel willingly, but your cause is just and your heart courageous, no matter what you yourself think. I do not have much of value to offer beside my counsel, but if you will have me—"

Ronan surged forward before he could finish and threw his arms around Shivaroth, holding fast and pressing his face into his shoulder. He was shaking, and the god returned the gesture after a moment, his own hands slowly raising up to press against Ronan's lower back.

"You don't ever have to ask," Ronan said quietly, his words nearly lost to the storm. "You will always have a place among my Circle, Shivaroth, regardless of what is coming."

" _Vi tihirah en_ ,Ronan." He ducked his head and smiled as the god's words registered: "I trust you." Thunder crashed above them and Shivaroth flinched at the sound, instinctively pulling Ronan closer and tensing up.

"They will not be pleased that I have chosen to stay." Shivaroth released him after a moment, and turned his face up toward the sky, shutting his eyes as the rain hit his skin and ran down his face. "But thank you, Ronan. You..." He looked down, meeting Ronan's eyes with an unfettered intensity. "You have opened my eyes. Shown me what matters. I will not forget that."

Ronan stared at him, awed by his sincerity. He bowed his head in acknowledgement. "You have done the same for me," he said after a moment. "I do not know where I would be if not for you."

Shivaroth fell silent, and his eyes skimmed the circle of statues that stood around them. It occurred to Ronan that the god had not been given the chance to mourn Aevar with their swift departure and panicked operations following his death. He wondered what he was feeling, what he hid behind his serene, tired eyes.

"Come," Shivaroth said, nodding toward a tree that stood behind the statue of Calyseus, the god of magic. "Let us continue this out of the rain."

Ronan followed him without question, making sure not to touch the statues as he passed. They were not real, not living, but their eyes held something familiar enough to be unsettling. When they reached the tree he leaned back heavily against its trunk, grateful to be shielded by its leaves.

They were both silent. Questions churned in Ronan's mind, those which he ached to ask and finally did, forcing the words from his lips with a hesitance he hadn't expected. He was consumed by his fear.

"Do you know what's wrong with me?"

"Are you speaking of what happened on the road?"

"Yes and no. That, but the rest of it too. I'm hearing voices. I can—I can speak Hjelohk. The vision on the road—"

Shivaroth paled. "That is what that was? What did you see?"

"Flames," Ronan whispered. "Blood, eyes. None of it fit together, nothing made sense. If you know what this is, Shiva, I'm begging you to tell me. Something's wrong, and I don't know what it is, and it's scaring me half to death." His voice was shaking, and Shivaroth dropped his eyes.

"Are you still hearing these voices?"

"No. Not since last night."

"Do you remember what they were saying?"

"There was a woman's voice at first." He struggled to piece together what she had said through hazy memories. "She called me _Avok'Shai_. Then another—" something clicked into place. His eyes widened.

"Another called me _Vaasa'Khir_ , just as Felhan did."

"Blind King," Shivaroth said. "I remember."

Shivaroth began to pace in the limited space they had beneath the tree, cradling his arm to his chest as he did so. "I do not know what any of this means."

"Don't lie." Ronan clutched at the front of Shivaroth's coat, obscuring his path. "You have to tell me. I can't go on like this, I'm losing my mind."

"You are not losing your mind," Shivaroth said sternly, "and I am not lying. I do not know what is happening to you, but you are not losing your mind."

"You knew enough to speak to me in Hjelohk!"

"You spoke it first, Ronan." Shivaroth repeated the words Ronan had whispered a night ago as he lay dying under the moon. " _Miira i'tai nahina_." He translated in a grim voice. "Sight becomes me."

Ronan shook his head desperately. "I don't care what it means. I need to know—"

Shivaroth, looking minutely annoyed, held up a hand. "You did not let me finish. I do not know what is happening, but I can find out. Terr'Havel has a large library, if you tell Wynne, we can both—"

"Wynne can't know," Ronan said quickly. "Neither can Acaeus. The only other person who knows is Zia, and you must promise to keep it that way. If Wynne or Acaeus catch wind of this, they'll kill themselves trying to fix it, and I—I can't let them do that. I can't ask them to put themselves in danger for me any more than they already have."

"That is their sworn duty, Ronan."

"Shivaroth," he snapped. "Promise me. This stays between us."

Shivaroth raised his hands in surrender. "I will search the library myself, then. Though I must implore you to tell them. They may be able to help in ways I cannot. I will begin to look for the reason why this is happening to you, and we can speak of any other concerns tomorrow. You must believe that I do not know the cause of these visions of yours, but I will do all I can to unravel them for you. Worst comes to worst, there is another measure we can take, another place I can look for answers."

Ronan stood still and silent. He saw something else in Shivaroth's eyes, something secretive and concealed.

Shivaroth sighed. "You are not obligated to believe me. Just know that I am on your side."

Ronan nodded. Stayed guarded. Shivaroth bit his lip, then turned, making his way back to the doors without another word.

The newfound silence was quickly overtaken by the cacophony of rain.

He eased himself to the ground, letting his head fall back against the cool, damp bark of the tree while his heart began to race, his mind following suit soon after. He knew he was likely overreacting, but he was unable to shake his unease.

The statue of Shivaroth across the courtyard looked innocent enough—it was draped with ivy and weathered more than the others. He pushed himself up and crossed over to it, staring up into its eyes.

Shivaroth was his ally, but he was still a member of the pantheon. He was untouchable and larger than life, a being that held an immense amount of power just beneath the surface. He could strike any of them down with a snap of his fingers, ensnare mortals in a realm of their own nightmares, lure someone into Serenvah so that their mortal body withered and died, yet something about him made it impossible for Ronan to see him as a threat. An enigma, perhaps, but not an enemy. Whether that would change remained to be seen.

Ronan pulled his hood back up over his ears and ducked his head. The cold was biting at his nose, and he pulled his cloak tighter around himself, reaching out a moment later and running his thumb over one of the leaves of ivy that adorned the statue's breast.

"Ronan?"

The prince startled, whirling around and taking a rapid step away from the sound out of fear that the voices had returned and this time he was alone—

"Hey, hey, easy—" Acaeus stood before him, and Ronan's heart slowed as he stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's just me. I'm sorry I startled you."

"How long have you..?" The thought of Acaeus overhearing any of his conversation with Shivaroth was paralyzing.

"Just a minute or so," Acaeus said hurriedly. "I came out when Shivaroth returned, I was hoping we could talk. Just for a moment."

Ronan eyed him. "Alright. What about?"

"I..." Acaeus turned so Ronan couldn't see his face. "I need to know that you're truly okay. That there's nothing you're not telling us. You just—you look so tired, so worn, and I don't want to let my guard down when there's still danger."

Ronan lowered his head, knowing full well what he had to do. An ache spread through his chest. "I'm okay, Acaeus."

"You promise?" Acaeus faced him. "Look at me. I need you to promise."

Ronan looked at him, kept his face devoid of emotion. "I promise."

A look flashed through Acaeus' eyes but he nodded and gave Ronan a strained smile.

"Good. I'm glad. I'll meet you back inside, alright? I'm sorry to bother you." He hesitated, then leaned forward and kissed Ronan's temple.

He left before Ronan could say another word, a trend that seemed to be growing among his friends. He stood alone again, and the interaction had been so brief that part of him was unsure it had happened at all. As he raised a hand to the place Acaeus' lips had brushed, he wondered if perhaps it would have been better if it hadn't. 


	16. XVI. Brittle, Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the circle's momentary peace comes to a screeching halt.

He was shaken awake that night to panicked whispers of his name.

At first the voice was all he registered. Then the hands on his shoulders, the choppy breathing of the one speaking, and the clamminess of their palms.

His eyes dragged open, blearily landing on Zia's face and the angry tears that streaked it. A moment later and he was up, out of the bed without hesitation, with questions leaping to his tongue. Ronan was shaking with adrenaline, wondering if he should be running for a weapon.

"What is it?"

"Acaeus," Zia said sharply. "It—he—fuck." She gritted her teeth. "Bastard."

He froze. Watched as Zia swiped tears from her eyes and shoved Ronan's clothes into his arms. She herself was dressed as if ready to go out into the storm.

"Put those on and meet us downstairs."

She stormed from the room, pulling up her hair hastily as the door shut behind her. Ronan stood still, slack-jawed and still half asleep, holding the clothes gingerly.

"Us?" He managed, speaking to no one but the empty room.

A lantern had been lit and left by the door, but the rest of the room was consumed by darkness. Judging by his view of the moon through the window, it was still night. As he pulled on his clothes, he wondered what could have happened between the quiet, peaceful dinner they'd shared hours prior and now.

It struck him as he was sliding on his boot.

Acaeus had not been present at the table. He had not seen him since the gardens, when he had—

Ronan shoved the other boot on, putting on a thigh-length black coat and cloak over it with shaking fingers. He grabbed the leather strap connected to the sheath of his trident and slung the weapon over his shoulder, snagging the lantern by the door as he darted from the room. He ignored the mounting ache behind his eyes and walked swiftly down the hall, toward the sound of riled voices. By the time he reached the staircase and started down it he could hear them clearly.

"Is there anything we can do?" There was a rustling of paper, and Liliana's voice responded.

"There has to be. Right? We can't just let him—"

Ronan rushed to the end of the staircase, eyes sweeping over everyone gathered in the main hall as the four awaiting him fell silent. Wynne stood near a decorative bookshelf with her hands clenched tightly into fists, Shivaroth sat cross-legged beside her, Zia was pacing fast enough to wear down the carpet beneath her feet, and Liliana stood in the middle of them all, holding a crumpled piece of paper. Ronan's body went cold. Acaeus wasn't there. _Acaeus wasn't there_.

"Does anyone want to tell me what's happening?" It took everything he had to keep his voice steady. They all avoided his gaze but Liliana, who stepped forward without a word and handed over the paper she'd been holding so gingerly.

His eyes struggled to focus on its words.

 _Ronan_ , it read.

 _I assume this will reach your eyes eventually, though I pray it is not until I am back by your side and triumphant_.

He looked up at Liliana, who simply nodded at him to continue.

 _Should you find this before then: I have left, as I promised, not without reason. You must trust that all I do is for your safety, and that you have every bit of my loyalty. I have not deserted you; I have gone to get you help_.

 _I know you're lying. You were never a good liar—_ a tear marked this word and the ink that was smeared after it— _as I have told you so many times before. Something is wrong with you, and I believe I know how I can fix it. You are seeing things, aren't you? Hearing them? My sister suffered the same affliction, an effect of some pact with the Three. I know someone who can help. You must trust me, I beg of you_.

Ronan's hands were shaking. He read the last paragraphs with his cheek clamped between his teeth until he tasted blood.

 _If I do not return, know that the years I spent beside you were the best of my life. I know you must be angry with me, or confused, or frightened. I am sorry I cannot be there to reassure you. But I promise you, Ronan Aldrea, I will do everything in my power to return to you with bright eyes and a victory to my name. Do not lose hope_.

 _Please, should I fail, do not blame yourself. My actions are, and have always been, my own. I know that my departure will hurt you, and I am so deeply sorry that I was the one to cause that pain. I ask you to remember your worth to your people, to your Circle, to this land. One life lost in the name of the king is one lost nobly_.

 _Your Shield_ ,

 _Acaeus Lesterium_.

The letter slipped from his grasp. Liliana bent to pick it up as he forced himself to breathe, to think through his terror.

"Where is he?" Ronan choked out. "Do you—do you know?"

"He mentioned his sister." Wynne spoke gently. "Our best guess is that he went to find her."

Ronan's mind was fixed on the last few lines of the letter, hanging on to everything he could remember, committing the words scrawled in a strange half-formal hand to memory. He could not forget. If those words were the last of Acaeus' he would ever receive, he could not forget.

"Does he even know where she is? He never spoke of Calysia outside of old stories." He had to force himself to think, and quickly. Depending on how long ago Acaeus had left, they could still catch him.

"That is where these come in," Shivaroth said from the floor, lifting up a handful of letters. A bag lay beside him, Acaeus', threadbare and worn. Ronan crossed the room and took them as they were offered, eyes skimming words to and from Acaeus' younger sister. He looked up a moment later.

"He knows, then."

"So do we, if those are recent." Wynne moved over to him and turned over one of the letters, nodding to an inked seal stamped on the back. It was a raven encircled in thorns, and curled around the seal was a ring of words:

 _Viraiha Taman'ti Reyha._ For the Glory of the Raven. Kadena's motto.

His knees went weak. "He went to Kadena?"

Zia whirled around. "Kadena?" The word was sharp and furious. "I take it back," she growled. Ronan looked up to find her pacing had resumed.  
"Take what back?"

"Yesterday I said he wasn't a fool. I was wrong. The man's a gods-damned imbecile, going off to Kadena alone! What was he thinking?"

"I doubt he was thinking much of anything," Wynne said somberly. "I'll bet there was only one thing on his mind, and that thing was saving his friend from whatever threat he had perceived."

"Kadena," Zia spat, ignoring her words. "Fucking Kadena."

Kadena was of the larger islands in the Crescent, but among the least populated. Their weather was harsher than even Adacia's, and the cult-like order of the Ravenpledged stalked their hills. They had no discernable ruling force, and had long worshipped the Three, as many of the western islands did.

People who took a ship to Kadena were unlikely to return.

"When did he leave?"

"Judging by the path his horse left, hours ago. We're not going to be able to catch him unless he stops for the night, but knowing Acaeus, he's not going to stop until he reaches the port." Wynne pointed to a map that had been unrolled before Shivaroth. She knelt down beside him and traced a line on it with her finger.

"There are no easily accessible ports to the west, so he would have gone east, back toward Solthorne. My guess is that he took the same route we took to get here, though I'd imagine he's bypassing Illirium. The Port of Culhan is near Solthorne—if he can get a ship out from there, it's a straight shot to Ivenmore and Kadena after that."

Shivaroth sighed. "I hate to be the one to say this, but it may not be wise to pursue him."

Ronan's eyes were ablaze. "To the Void with wise, Shivaroth, I'm not leaving him to die! I can't do this without him."

Wynne studied him for a moment. "Shivaroth is right." At Ronan's look of betrayal, she made a placating gesture with her hands and took the map with her when she stood. "I am not suggesting we do nothing," she said slowly, "just that we need to consider what consequences this could carry."

"I'm not leaving him," Ronan insisted. Zia came to stand at his side.

"I'm with Ronan. There's still a chance we can catch up to him, but only if we leave now."

"Then what exactly do you suggest we do?" Wynne shook her head. "Half of us are too tired to form a sentence correctly, how do you expect us to navigate the mountains?"

"Easy," Zia said. "Not all of us are going."

Ronan glanced over at her as she took the map from Wynne and held it open before him.

"We know he'll have to stop in Ivenmore, it's the only island within miles that has people willing to take him to Kadena. If we cut through _Khir_ _Havain_ —" she pointed to a path slightly closer to them but known for its treacherous blizzards, "—and take a ship from Port Lede, we may be able to get to Ivenmore before him, and stop him before he can even reach Kadena."

"And which 'we' are you referring to?" Wynne was tense.

"Ronan and I." Zia straightened. "Acaeus trusts us, and two monarchs working together have a sort of power that neither of you would."

Shivaroth cleared his throat before Wynne could protest. "I will accompany you."

Ronan shook his head. "No. You're injured, and your magic is drained. You'd be putting us and yourself in danger." _Kadena is well outside your realm of control_ , he didn't say. _The Three's hunting grounds are no place for one of the Seven_ , he didn't say. "Zia and I can handle it," he said instead. Shivaroth didn't miss his meaning, Ronan could see it in his eyes.

"That is assuming," Wynne muttered, "that we will allow you to go."

Zia laughed aloud. "And assuming you have the power to stop us."

Ronan exhaled sharply, raising his voice to a shout that echoed off the walls. "Enough! We will get nowhere if we argue. We're wasting time." Zia and Wynne fell silent. He continued.

"If Acaeus is going to Kadena, he's facing real danger. I am more than willing to sacrifice my rest to find him; it's not like Zia and I were doing anything crucial here."

"Are you going to overlook the fact that a few days ago you were dying in my arms? Not only that, but if Acaeus' letter was right, you're not fully recovered. You can't afford to be foolish; you're going to be king." Wynne was pleading with him. She could fully see, as the rest of them could, that both he and Zia had made up their minds.

It made sense; the three of them had essentially grown up together, and had faced many of their most difficult trials side by side. Losing Acaeus was not an option to them.

"I'm well enough." He steeled himself, turning to Wynne. "Listen. We're young, resilient—we'll be faster than you, and if you stay you can work on forming a plan for what comes next."

"There won't be a 'what comes next' if you get yourselves killed chasing someone who's likely—"

"Wynne." Liliana grasped her forearm. "This is something they need to do. They're strong enough to handle it on their own."

Wynne shook her head vehemently. "If this land loses its king, especially now, it will lose itself. If I—if I lose him—" She bit her lip. "It should be me, I should go."

"My love," Liliana whispered. "This is not a fight you can win."

Wynne turned, pressing her hands against her eyes and breathing deeply. She stayed silent for a moment, and the hall was hollow without the sound of their voices. She moved back toward them a moment later and gripped Ronan's shoulders.

"You have to swear to me that you'll come back. Both of you. Swear it on the name of every god that has ever lived."

Ronan nodded, and held her gaze with an intense determination. "I swear." Zia echoed his promise solemnly.

They were not fools; they all knew the promise meant nothing. It was empty. Survival was never guaranteed. Yet it was enough to make them relax for the time being, so he swore, just as he had to Acaeus hours ago in the garden, witnessed by statues of angry gods.

He had lied. Acaeus had left. Tears sprung to his eyes and Wynne pulled him in, embraced him, held on tight.

"Why would he—" Ronan's voice broke. "Why?"

Wynne ran a hand through his hair. Zia began to move about the room, gathering supplies and shoving them, still with a notable amount of anger, into her bag.

"Because he would do anything to protect you," Wynne murmured. "He thinks this will be the thing that keeps you safe."

"I'm going to kill him when we find him," Zia hissed. "Kill him. Self-sacrificial shithead."

It was no secret that Acaeus did not see himself as someone worthy of courtesy or respect. He had always been the one to throw himself in front of danger, to pursue the impossible with the threat of death at his heels, to ignore the worth of his presence to those around him. Ronan cursed. Nothing he could have done would have changed the knight's nature, but perhaps if he'd just tried harder...

Ronan pulled away from Wynne, who let go of him reluctantly with a pained look in her eyes. She leaned forward and pulled the hood of his cloak up, smoothing it down over his hair.

"You two are strong enough to endure this," she said. "I know you won't give up. The three of us will await your return."

Shivaroth stood, nodding. "I will look into what we discussed, and speak to you when you come back. May Fate be kind to you, dear one."

Ronan smiled at them both, bowing his head. "Thank you." He turned his focus to Liliana. "And thank _you_. I don't know where we'd be without your aid."

Liliana bowed at the waist. "I am always here to extend a hand to the royal family," she murmured. "It is the least I can do to repay your mother."

Ronan remembered the promise she referenced. Remembered his mother's words—" _if you ever need guidance, seek out Lady Liliana Tsu Rin. Your friend Wynne, she can lead you to her. Trust them, little bird. They will protect you even after I am gone._ "

"I..." He held himself tall. "I am sure she would be very grateful."

Liliana smiled sadly, and before she could say anything else, Zia shoved a bag into his hands.

"Ready?"

Ronan's eyes swept the hall. He exhaled, pulling on a pair of fur-lined leather gloves offered to him by Zia. "Yes."

He slung the bag over his shoulder, smiling one last time at the three that stood before them with varying degrees of hope in their eyes.

"We'll be back," he said firmly.

"With Acaeus." Zia's jaw was tight. "We won't fail."

"May the seas be kind to you both," Liliana murmured. Wynne and Shivaroth echoed her statement a moment later, and Zia started forward to the door, pushing it open and looking at Ronan expectantly.

He met Wynne's eyes. Whispered a soft, "goodbye." She opened her mouth, then closed it and forced a smile. As Ronan walked out the door beside Zia, he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck, sorrowful and afraid, until the doors shut behind them and their only observers were the sky and the rain that fell from it.

"Zia?" He breathed. She knew what he was going to say.

"We'll find him," she said. She fixed him with a steely look. "Alive."

He shut his eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm himself. "How do you know?"

"Because Acaeus has always been as resourceful as he is stupid, and if tonight is any indicator, he's incredibly stupid. Hopefully it'll all balance out."

"I pray it does."

Zia took his arm and led him forward, nodding her head to some silent plan. Her anger, while still boiling beneath the surface, had mostly dissipated, blown away by the harsh winds that swept the Midlands. She released him when they reached the stables—Acaeus' horse was gone, leaving the other three they had ridden in on, two familiar and one lifted from the Rhydellan camp.

He and Zia each led a horse from the stall, putting on the saddles and the lightly packed saddlebags. He looked into his mount's large, trusting eyes and ran a hand down its neck.

"We've got a ways to go," he murmured. The horse pushed its nose against Ronan's palm, tossing its head as Ronan moved and pulled himself up onto its back. He glanced over at Terr'Havel as Zia pulled herself up beside him, murmuring a quiet, "easy, girl," as the mare she rode startled at the sound of thunder.

The windows were all lit, and cast a warm light onto the ivy that climbed the rough stone walls. He could not see anyone watching them but he felt their eyes, anxious yet hopeful, as he pulled back on his reins and eased his horse back out onto the road they had been so grateful to leave just days prior.

Gods, he felt the eyes of everyone; the noblemen, those that got drunk in the taverns praying for a better world to wake up to, merchants, mercenaries, the pantheon, the Rhydellans, those that time forgot—the fate of many rested on his shoulders, it was no longer just his own. No matter what was coming, he had to make it out alive. Not for himself, but for his people. It had been some time since they had order. They deserved that much.

Zia urged her mount into a gallop and Ronan did the same, keeping himself even with her movements as she pulled their map out of her bag with one hand.

"Our path through the mountains will likely take longer than his, but the boat ride from Port Lede is shorter. That should make up for lost time." She glanced at the map and then back up at the road, plotting out their route. " _Khir Havain_ —you told me about that place once, didn't you?"

Ronan nodded. "In Old Adacian, its name means King's Rest. The legend is that the bastard son of an old Rhydellan king made his last stand against his own army there after aiding his lover, an Adacian princess."

"Sounds cheery."

"Mm. Most Adacian tales are."

They rode along the tree line of the forest while the wind battered them from all sides. Any allyship he'd once felt toward the elements had completely bled away and been forgotten. The storm would not let up, and Ronan knew that if it was raining this much in the Midlands they'd be facing feet of snow in the mountains. He hunched his body farther over his horse's neck, urging it to move faster. The cold seemed to slide like ice between his ribs, piercing his lungs without mercy.

Dread was buzzing in his chest. His hands, already numb where they were clenched around his reins, shook violently. Terror, that's what this was; the threat of losing someone he had expected to have by his side until the end. Acaeus had always seemed untouchable—he had a steady hand and steady convictions, and an air about him that made him appear endlessly strong. He should have known something was wrong the moment Acaeus had started acting so distant. He should have known. He should have stopped this.

The hour was too late and the weather too violent for them to cross paths with any others on the road. He was grateful. They rode in sporadic, urgent bursts, not wanting to push their mounts too far too soon but knowing full well that if they didn't reach Acaeus before he left for Kadena their task would be all the more difficult.

Kadena. A land he had never been to, one that rarely reared its head among its surrounding nations. It was the source of the stories used to dissuade children from staying out too late at night— _if you don't come inside before dark, someone will sweep you up and take you to Kadena. You don't want to end up in the hands of the Ravenpledged!—_ and had been largely forgotten after the collapse of their royal family. Though one of the biggest islands of the main seven in the archipelago, they were the most commonly disregarded.

While the ghost stories were blatantly false, they were warranted. Kadena was a wild, forested place, sparsely inhabited outside of its most populated city, Jahengard. Beasts, outlaws, and the Ravenpledged roamed their hills, and those factors were enough to keep most outside attention to a minimum.

And yet they charged toward it, and willingly entered its danger. He bit back tears, cursing his weakness. There was no time to cry over what had already come to pass. They had to look forward, or there was no chance they'd reach Acaeus in time to save him. Ronan's fingers curled, his hands numb and stiff even with his gloves. Zia glanced over at him, weighing the air around them before she spoke.

"But what will we do if we fail?"

The world seemed to shudder to a stop around him. His mind flashed with memories, almost too fast to catch—

 _Acaeus, laughing beside him in the palace gardens. Acaeus, holding a letter over a flame. Acaeus, on his knees before the court whispering, "I pledge my life to the Crown Circle and vow to protect the prince, now and until the end of my days." Acaeus, biting back tears as he ran a hand through Ronan's hair. Acaeus, kissing his temple. Acaeus, leaving_.

Ronan's heart skipped a beat. He kept his head down, his eyes trained on the muddy wastes of the road ahead. After a long stretch of silence, he finally said, "I don't know."

"How will we—how do you move on from something like that? If he dies—"

"Zia." His voice was sharp. Undeservedly so. "Not now."

The air between them was brittle and electric. Not angry, but fragile. They both stood on a precipice, incapable of knowing what awaited them, of what words would carry over to the end of their journey. Of what words would eventually reach Acaeus' ears, should they still be attached to a living man. They continued on in silence. There were no words left to be said—they'd been stolen by the wind, filled by a bleak, heavy fog.

It seemed then that all of the land rose up to meet them. The mountains sprouted beneath their feet as abruptly as the release of an arrow, erupting in jagged spires from the ground and reaching toward the sky. Their tips were high, concealed in the rain and fog that reached down and brushed their shoulders. Khir'Havain was a bleak, snow-heavy slash through the black stone, a treacherous trail but the only way to get to Acaeus before he could find some way to get himself killed.

The storm had only worsened since they left, and seemed determined to continue on its path of disaster. Adacia was rarely the center of any storms from the sea as their air was dry and cold, but this one carried the salt and rage of the waves on its breath. This storm came from the depths, he could tell. He had a sense of the sea that he had inherited from his father, a draw to it. As a child he had possessed a foolish, unconditional trust for the waves, convinced that no matter what happened they would not harm him. Part of him still believed it, feeling some sort of comfort in the sea's embrace, while the rest of him had witnessed its undeniable danger at one time or another. It was a childish belief, he knew that. Still, it did not halt his shock. This was the ocean's tempest.

As the stories went, whenever a storm rose from the Adacian seas, it was out of wrath. It was an attempt to pull the craggy, jagged land back into the waters it emerged from so long ago, and this time it certainly seemed determined to do just that. He was sure the seas would be rough, but he knew Acaeus wouldn't stop until he reached Kadena. His eyes narrowed. If he was going to sail across the channel, even in this storm, their only choice was to follow.

"When we get to the port are we renting a boat or paying for passage on a ferry?" The wind was calm between the high cliffs that walled Khir'Havain in on either side, and Zia's voice was disproportionately loud. She had voiced the very problem he was beginning to work through in his mind. Ronan breathed out.

"We'll take a ferry to Ivenmore, but we may have to get ourselves to Kadena. There's only one ship that takes people there due to the waters being so treacherous. If we can't stop Acaeus before he gets there and he books passage, we'll have to sail ourselves."

"I'm assuming that's not a good thing."

"Kadena has no lighthouses, few maps, and a graveyard of ships caught in its reef. It's the farthest thing from good."

"Then we'll just have to get there first," Zia said with a confidence that he did not share. "We don't have to worry about Kadena if he never gets there."

Ronan was silent, his mind reeling with the endless possible outcomes of their situation. He voiced one of them a moment later, glad the dark skies concealed his shaking hands.

"I don't think he'll let us bring him back," he breathed.

"Not voluntarily." Zia shrugged. "If I have to drag him by his hair, I will. Normally I'd try diplomacy, but he's endangering himself and all of us along with him. He has no right to bring this shit to our doorstep without at least consulting us. He's always been reckless, but when that recklessness starts to endanger people beyond himself, it's gone too far. He can't make that call for other people."

"It was foolish," Ronan said. "His intentions were noble but it was foolish."

"Funny how that goes, isn't it?" Zia's breath fogged in the air before her. The weight of the storm that had forced Ronan's shoulders to hunch long ago had not touched her, and she sat straight and tall on the back of her mount, relying on her hooded cloak to shield her body from the elements. "I wish it wasn't like that," she continued. "That people could have a bit more sense."

"Perhaps they will find some." Ronan rubbed his eye. It stung viciously. "This war, all of these things we're faced with, they've forced us to grow up. To see what lies beyond our own skin. We've had to see this, but many others haven't, and live only within themselves. Shivaroth once said that the mortal understanding of self is contradictory in nature—that the 'I' cannot exist without a 'you', and therefore is meaningless when rooted in individualist ideals."

"He said that?"

"Something like it. It wasn't in Adacian. In Hjelohk what he said was literally 'the individual is empty in solitude.'"

"And?"

Ronan met Zia's eyes. "And what?"

"How's that supposed to help?"

He sighed. "I'm not sure. I'm not claiming to understand it. I just hope that if he's right, people will begin to see this. They could see that the other is not always the enemy. Maybe then they could change."

Zia was silent for a moment. She rolled her mount's braided reins between her fingers. "Maybe they already have," she said. "Your people are banding together under Rhydel's oppression, you've seen it as much as I have. I think there's a good chance that even without your guidance, Adacia will see itself to victory."

"You think so?"

Zia nodded. "You and your people are strong. Some—" Acaeus' name hung unsaid in the air, "—act selfishly while thinking they do it to help others. Some act selfishly because they are selfish. Others risk life and limb to protect what they believe is right. The Adacian people have always leaned more toward the last; have faith in them, Ronan. They may yet surprise you."

Ronan's mind was called back to the road he and Shivaroth traveled to Llyran, the one that had been strewn with discarded belongings and injured civilians. People had helped him, helped others, even while it endangered their own lives. Zia was right. They would need a leader, and soon, but he had to give them the same faith that they had in him. He had to trust that they would be able to hold their own until he was able to form some proper defense.

They crested a craggy hill. Khir'Havain only grew narrower ahead, and Zia pulled her horse in front of his own, keeping her speed up and effectively removing any chance of coherent conversation. She'd been right in the act, however, as the pass slimmed out so quickly that Ronan's elbows soon brushed the walls of stone on either side of him. They could hardly move, much less do so side by side. Nevertheless they kept their pace steady and fast, unwilling to allow Acaeus to gain any more of a lead.

The rain had turned to heavy snow. The wind threatened to pry his hands from his reins. Thunder, a painful addition to it all, rolled behind it, thrumming through his bones. He couldn't see beyond the snow and fog to guess at what was on the horizon, but he could feel the looming presence of Kadena far in the distance, shrouded in darkness and littered with Ravenpledged temples and dark objects. It awaited them with open arms, longing for new eyes and a new touch, having been shackled to the same people for so many years.

He was going to bring Acaeus home if it killed him, and if that meant stepping foot on Kadena, the Dead Island, so be it.


	17. XVII. Lucky Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zia and ronan pursue acaeus; fate reveals yet another card in its hand.

Port Lede was gray. The houses, the food, the faces. It was a minuscule fishing town nearly independent from the rest of Adacia, separated from larger cities and villages by the daunting mountains it had taken them until morning to cross. By the time they reached it, the sun was peeking up from under the sea, teasing its rebirth. Members of the limited population eyed them warily as they passed, gray eyes cold and inhospitable. Ronan didn't blame them—it was common knowledge among his people by now that strangers often meant Rhydellans and Rhydellans meant war. They did not come bearing the red flag of the enemy, but they might as well have; the apprehension was justified.

The ships tethered to the docks were just as gray as the people. The wood was rough and weak but seemingly seaworthy, and Ronan wasn't about to complain. He kept his hood up and his head down as he dismounted his horse and led it along the shore. Zia followed soon after, her back and shoulders rigid and tense. 

"We'll pay for passage on one of these," Ronan said. He scanned their surroundings, and Zia grimaced.

"I can't say I'm thrilled by our options."

Ronan nodded. The ships certainly weren't vessels he'd place any large amount of trust in. He led his horse onto the dock, wincing as the wood creaked and dipped beneath its hooves. An old sailor looked up at them at the end of the dock, pausing in the intricate business of mending a frayed rope. 

"Who are you?" His voice was as grizzled as his face. His hands, rough and bony, froze on the rope he held.

Ronan offered a respectful bow, cautious and stiff. "A traveler, sir."

"We don't get too many travelers around here, boy." His eyes darted from Ronan to Zia and back again. His next words were directed at the queen. "And you?"

"My name is Zia." Ronan looked at her, eyes wide. Even the most remote villages knew of the queen across the sea—if she gave herself away, it would dig their grave in a heartbeat. The villagers wouldn't even have to be directly hostile—word of their presence would spread regardless, and Rhydel would be biting at their heels in no time. 

"Zia," the man said. "Esadonian name, is it not? That short for something?"

"Zia Anahera Te—" she stopped herself before she could say her surname. "Tenasi," she said hastily. 

"Mm." The sailor stood. "Strong name. Means something about wind, right?"

"'Daughter of the South Wind.'" Zia's eyebrows raised. "You speak Esadonian?"

"A little. I own a ferry, kid, you need to pick up a few languages when you're in a trade like mine." He studied them, slightly more at ease. "You two need to get somewhere?"

"Ivenmore," Ronan said.

"That is a rough path this time of year. You see this weather?"

"It's urgent." Zia stepped forward beside him. "We have coin. We're willing to pay double your usual fare." 

The sailor threw back his head and laughed. "Look around us. This look like a place where coin is of any use? Trade only, and it has to be something good. I can get you to Ivenmore, sure, but considering this storm, it will cost you." 

Ronan and Zia exchanged glances. Their bags had nothing but essentials—provisions, clothes, weapons. Nothing extravagant enough to count toward a boat fare. Ronan cursed under his breath and opened the flap of one of his saddlebags, peering in and sifting through for something valuable. His fingers touched something cold and sharp and his brow furrowed—the shape was unfamiliar and unnerving, and when he shifted the clothes on top of it to the side, his heart skipped a beat. 

_Amon'Llyra_ lay, small and unassuming, at the bottom of the bag. His blood ran cold and he withdrew his hand, closing the saddlebag and tying the flap down. Zia raised an eyebrow in a silent question that he did not answer, and he turned back to the sailor empty-handed.

"We don't have much," he said slowly. "Just our blades and some rations."

The sailor studied him, pushing himself into a standing position with a groan and cracking his back leisurely when he was on his feet. He seemed to ponder something and then nodded with the slow thoughtfulness of a sage.

"One of your horses will do."

Ronan paled. "Pardon?"

"One of your horses, kid. No way to fit 'em both on the boat anyhow. It is a good deal."

He glanced back at Zia, who bit her lip. After a moment she shrugged and began to unbuckle the saddlebags from her mount, lowering them to the ground.

"Deal," she said for the both of them. Ronan didn't refute it; they both knew that this wasn't ideal, but they needed to get off of Adacia one way or another, and they had nothing else to offer. Ronan nodded and the sailor grinned, calling a boy tending to his boat over and telling him to go lead Zia's mare to the stables. The boy muttered something in response, took the reins from Zia's hand, and walked past them with his head down. The old man held out his hand and Zia shook it, her grip firm.

"Pleasure doing business with you," the man said. He hauled himself into his ferry, hardly big enough for the three of them even without the horse, and then dropped a plank of wood off the side and onto the dock, using it as a makeshift ramp. "Get your horse up here first. Lead 'im in, slowly, there we go—"

Ronan wasted no time in doing as he was told. Within minutes they were on board, Zia had tied the extra saddlebags onto Ronan's unfortunate mount, and the ferryman was untying the ropes from the dock. He was grateful that Port Lede was not a place where people were inclined to talk to strangers, as the moment the sails were unfurled and they were cutting through the violent waves, his mind began to wander.

Shivaroth was at the forefront of his thoughts; that seemed to be the case quite often nowadays. It came as no surprise to him, but the ache in his chest that accompanied his musings certainly was. He pegged it first as guilt—an easy thing to mistake it for, as over the last month he'd subjected the god to endless danger and concluded it with the act of murdering someone he'd loved as a brother. Guilt was a perfectly reasonable assumption, but it still wasn't correct.

He would have contemplated it longer, but Zia sat down at the bow of the boat beside him, pulling up her hood against the wind and sea spray. She averted her eyes and dug her thumbnail into the soft, waterlogged bench they sat on. Ronan opened his mouth to ask her if something was wrong, but she spoke before he could compile his thoughts.

"Not long now," she said.

"No. Not long at all."

"I..." Zia bit her lip. She still hadn't met his eyes. "I have a bad feeling about this." She lowered her voice. "Maybe it's just that we've separated from everyone else, but I feel like we're going toward something bad. I can't explain it."

The storm raged. The wind blew seawater into the boat, and despite the fact that it was early in the morning, the sky resembled dusk, dark and impenetrable. Ronan reached out and took her hand, halting her compulsive clawing at the wood. She looked up at him, then, and he was surprised to see the depth of the unease in her eyes, an expression he was unused to and unnerved by.

"Whatever happens," he said, "we'll make it back to them."

"You can't promise that." Zia drew back from his touch. "I know we're doing the right thing, but—" she faltered. "It feels like we're not. It feels wrong. This feels wrong."

The sailor manning the rudder whistled long and low, startling them both. A creak from the boat prompted a nervous whinny from Ronan's stallion, who was tied to a post in the cramped, half-covered cabin.

"This storm is picking up," the sailor called up. "You two do something to anger the gods?" He grinned, finding his own jab amusing. Ronan chuckled nervously, and Zia didn't look up.

"Maybe so," Ronan said weakly. The sight of Aevar's body, burning in his pyre yet still so strong, flashed before his eyes. He spoke again, quickly, trying to rid himself of the image. "Are we still going to be able to get to Ivenmore?"

The sailor looked almost offended. "I've been doing this for longer than you can imagine," he said solemnly. "I've never lost a passenger, and I've never needed to turn back. This storm is nothing."

Ronan shuddered. He was willing to bet that the previous storms he'd sailed through weren't directed by the hands of the Seven.

"Very well," Ronan said. His clothes were soaked down to the skin, and despite the relief of being out of the blizzard that had threatened to suffocate them through Khir'Havain, the frigid rain was not proving to be much better for their health. Zia shifted so her head was laying against his shoulder and shut her eyes, breathing out slowly.

"Good thing we don't get seasick," she murmured.

He couldn't shake the look that had been on her face. Not the look, nor the words that had followed. He didn't push it, though—he could tell it would lead nowhere. He shut his eyes and rested his cheek against the top of her head. They were both shivering, and their shared warmth was quickly bleeding away. He figured Zia was likely colder than he was, or at least feeling the effects more. Esadon was known for its warmth, being situated closer to Rhydel. Both islands were warm for over half of the year, while Adacia and all islands to the left of it were either blanketed by snow or assaulted by harsh rains for the majority of it.

Adacia had learned to take advantage of this fact. There were tunnels and holds in the mountains for military use, as their winters were much too harsh for the majority of their enemies. To his knowledge, most of the resistance fighters were holed up somewhere in the mountains, and Ronan considered the move wise. After all, Rhydel hadn't found Solthorne until Aevar had guided them to it. The snow both attacked and defended; most of their enemies would have frozen to death on the winding mountain paths before they'd even caught wind of the prince's base of operations. In fact, he was sure many had done just that. Acaeus had often found grim traces of those ill-fated expeditions on his patrols.

Something struck the bottom of the boat. The weak wood lurched to the side and Ronan's eyes shot open, his hands flying up to clutch at the bow, holding himself in place. Zia sat up beside him, fixing her gaze, now alert and lacking any hint of the emotion that had been in it prior, on the man at the stern.

"What was that?" Ronan asked apprehensively.

"Nothing important," the sailor said with a serene ease. "This boat will not sink. The _Lucky Bird_ is magic, see? This boat is incapable of sinking. You will be safe as long as you stay onboard."

"Whatever you say," Zia muttered.

They stayed silent for the next few hours, not letting their guard down even when they knew Ivenmore couldn't have been far. Theoretically, with the aid of a calm sea and a steady heart, one could make it there within an hour, but they had easily been sailing for three. The sheer force of the rain and wind had slowed them, and it was another hour, during which he and Zia nearly began to lose hope, before they saw the first beam from the lighthouse.

It cut across the water cleanly, a ray powered by the hands of an Asir mage. It lit the waves from behind, catching multiple dark shapes within them that Ronan didn't want to think about, and continued on its course. The lights from the port shone in the distance. Though it must have been close to noon, the sky was still dark and the storm didn't seem keen on letting up. He felt the eyes of the Seven on the back of his neck. They were unrelenting.

Defeat was beginning to edge itself into his mind—unless Acaeus had come up against similar problems from the storm, their hope of beating him to Ivenmore was all but lost. Although, the sailor had been right. The boat hadn't sunk, and there was at least the small luxury of avoiding a gruesome death at sea. He shuddered. He'd always feared drowning. Despite his trust for the sea, he had never been able to shake that wariness.

When he looked back at the old man, he could have sworn that his eyes were as dark as Shivaroth's. He turned away before their gazes could meet. The closer they got to Kadena the jumpier he became—the feeling of being watched hadn't dissipated. From the tense lock of Zia's shoulders, he figured she was feeling the same.

They drew ever closer to the dark shores of Ivenmore. Ronan's eyes strayed from the sea momentarily as he looked along the coastline. Boats tethered to docks dipped and swayed violently with the sea, strings of multicolored flags that hung through the city threatened to be torn away, and the few that dared to be out in the streets ran with their heads down and their hands futilely guarding their faces from the rain.

"Welcome to Fahl's Peak," the sailor called over the wind. "Just strange enough to be on the map."

Ronan knew of it—it had become a busy trading hub since the war had started in Adacia, as it was situated in the middle of Shiqatar, the Isle of Lyr, and Kadena while still being shielded from Rhydel and Esadon by Adacia's central position.

"If we're in Fahl's Peak," Ronan muttered to Zia, "we'll be sailing around the coast of Ivenmore to Jahengard."

"Why Jahengard? Can't we just—" Zia lowered her voice, and Ronan had to strain to hear her over the storm and the might of the sea. "—can't we just land directly at the Ravenpledged camps?"

"That is assuming they have any place to land," Ronan said. "Jahengard is the only city for miles, and Kadena is large. They have a passage through the most treacherous parts of the shallows, but anywhere else it's up in the air. We won't have any luck finding the camps if our ship sinks in the reefs, you know."

His voice was hoarse with exhaustion. He knew it would be unwise to leave for Kadena immediately without resting—they'd been awake for far too long, and working nonstop to keep themselves that way. They needed to rest. In fact, Ronan's vision was beginning to take on the strange quality that it had possessed on the road to Terr'Havel, and he felt the subtle itch of a voice in the back of his mind. He gritted his teeth.

Was it exhaustion that did it? Had the stress caused his mind to splinter?

There it was again. The hint of flames. The ring of metal. The same vision he'd had on the way to Terr'Havel, but weaker this time, more subtle. Only flashes through the storm. Nevertheless, he swayed, bracing himself on the side of the boat. The moment his fingers brushed the wood, his vision cleared and his mind went silent.

Zia was staring at him. He was staring at nothing. He shook his head, rubbing his right eye as it began to water.

As Ronan struggled to regain his composure, the sailor veered wildly to the left. A wave pushed them forward and Ronan clung to the side of the ship, eyes wide in alarm. If he were anyone else he might have prayed, but he was no friend of the gods and would have wagered that praying for salvation would have done nothing but make them more inclined to kill him right then and there.

They were heading toward the shore, pushed by the waves and the wind, hurtling forward violently. The docks were to their right, too far to reach, but even as the boat was on course to crash the man sailing her was calm, keeping a rope from the sail wrapped around his right hand while his left held their course steady. Ronan braced himself, meeting Zia's determined eyes and linking his hand with hers when she offered it. Ronan was sure the _Lucky Bird_ would splinter—she was as old as anything Ronan had ever seen, patched together with odd bits of wood and painted with a faded blue design that he couldn't decipher. There was no way she would survive this. None. He only hoped her passengers would face a better fate.

Ronan clenched his jaw. Braced himself against the fragile walls. The ship rammed itself up against the shore and his horse stomped its hooves in terror. The land had become their enemy, now, hard and unforgiving, the rocks carving jagged paths through the planks without regard for the ship that had been named for its luck.

However, there must have been some truth to that name. There was no other explanation for what came next. The ship seemed to steer itself—the sailor had let go of the tiller and sat peacefully behind them—avoiding dips in the ground and spires of stone that rose from the craggy beach. When they had cleared the worst of it they came to rest gently at the base of a dune, the swell that had pushed them there receding back into the sea.

He blinked. Then again. When he stood up his surroundings stayed the same: the beached ship was nearly undamaged, her passengers safe, and the sea that raged behind them had released its suffocating grasp.

Ronan turned to the sailor, who looked pleased with himself. "How—" he shook his head. "How did you—"

"I told you," the man said easily. "My ship doesn't sink. It has magic in it, kid, a generous heap of it. You do not have to believe me, but—"

"I believe you," Ronan said quickly. The seawater had begun to drain out through the cracks in the bow. He surveyed the damage, then winced. "I'm sorry about your boat."

The sailor threw back his head and laughed. Zia painstakingly swung her legs, likely as numb as his own, over the side of the boat and onto the shore, futilely wringing the water from her tunic and cloak.

"She will be fine in an hour or two," the old man said, staying seated where he was. Ronan didn't even begin to ponder what he meant after what they had just been through. At this point, the ship could have grown wings and it would have seemed just as probable. The man eyed Ronan and Zia with a hint of amusement, as if he could hear their thoughts of disbelief, and leaned the plank from before up against the side of the boat, nodding to their horse.

"I thought you two had somewhere to be."

Ronan stood frozen for a moment. Zia answered for him.

"We do."

"Get on it, then." The man handed Ronan the reins of the horse and he took them, leading it up and letting it jump down onto the shore with a hesitance that was perfectly understandable. Ronan lowered himself down soon after but thought of something before he let go of the edge.

"What's your name?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "I seem to recall you never gave me yours."

Ronan straightened his shoulders. Zia pulled herself onto the horse behind him with a wince, staying silent.

"Is it too much to ask to know the name of the one that got us through something no other could have?" He raised his chin. "I am in your debt."

Zia tapped her hand against his shoulder. Even their horse seemed on edge.

"Ronan." His name was a warning on her lips. "I think we should go."

"Zia—"

"I'm serious," she hissed. "I'll explain, but only once we're on the road. Come on. Please."

There was a certain urgency to her words that spurred him forward. He pulled himself up onto the horse behind her, feeling a flash of sympathy for the poor creature that must have been just as tired as they were, before Zia called a swift "thank you" back to the man and urged the horse swiftly into a gallop. A few more minutes and they had left the beach altogether and headed inland, doing their best to shelter themselves from the rain beneath the sparse trees of the forest around the city. The lights of Fahl's Peak glinted through gaps in the foliage, and Ronan exhaled shakily.

"You going to tell me what that was about?"

"Keep your head down," Zia murmured. She glanced back at the beach, which had disappeared in the storm behind them. She relaxed at this realization, though her hands didn't loosen their grip on the reins. "Listen, there's—there's an old myth about the Seven that we have in Esadon. Something about how they would come down and watch those they were curious about."

"You think..?"

"Not really. I don't—I don't think they'd come down just to watch with all we've done to spite them. But that man set me on edge, there was something—"

"—about his eyes," Ronan finished, recalling their darkness. "Yeah."

"I know I'm being paranoid," Zia said. "I'm not entirely lacking in self-awareness. I'm just...we can't be too careful, right?" There was an edge of anxiety in her voice, one Ronan had heard in his own a good deal recently. One that said, " _I promise I'm not crazy_ , _you just have to believe me_."

"You're not being paranoid," Ronan soothed. "I got the same feeling. We're living in a time where it's perfectly possible that the gods could be among us, hunting us—your worries are well-founded."

Zia shook her head. "But I can't let them rule me."

"No," Ronan agreed, "but I trust your judgment more than my own. If you have a bad feeling about something, even if it's only conjecture, I'll trust you." He trailed off, watching as they drew ever closer to the city.

"Besides," he murmured. "We—we're alone out here. We have to trust each other, or we're never going to make it back to Terr'Havel."

Zia nodded, but gave no further response. Ronan didn't get a chance to ask if anything else was the matter.

The city was upon them, then—the strings of triangular flags Ronan had seen from the sea were less triumphant close up, with faded colors and ragged edges, and the rest of the city seemed to match. It was tired and cold, and the few people out on the streets ignored him and Zia entirely. Their horse's legs, shaking from exhaustion, sank into the muddy street with a horrid heaviness.

From the stories he'd heard of Fahl's Peak, this was entirely uncharacteristic. Perhaps it was only the weather, but in the tales and paintings the city was depicted as bright and bustling, with a cheerful demeanor and merchant-lined streets.

This was anything but.

"There are ships over there," Zia said, breaking her silence and nodding toward the docks on the far end of the city. "No one will take us in this storm."

"No one was going to take us to Kadena in the first place," Ronan said drearily. "Remember?"

"Unfortunately, I do," Zia muttered. "I know how to sail, and I know you do too, but how are we going to afford a boat? That's more expensive than passage on a ferry, and we don't have much of anything."

"We'll see when we get there." Ronan's fingers, tipped with an unhealthy blue, uncurled from their position on Zia's cloak. He swung his legs over the side and dropped from the horse's back without warning, the mud sucking at his boots when he landed. Zia glanced down at him in surprise as he walked slowly beside her, watching as he opened one of the saddlebags and pulled from it the short blade Aevar had once held, still stained with Ronan's blood.

Zia's eyes widened. "Did you bring that?"

Ronan shook his head, averting his eyes as he slid the blade into his belt and hid it beneath his cloak. "I didn't. I don't know how it got there but I know it's important, and I'm not risking its loss."

"Do you think Shivaroth..?"

"I can ask." Ronan shivered and hooked his hand through one of the straps on the saddlebag.

"How?"

"Prayer." He sounded childish saying it. "I'm his Herald, or so he told me long ago, which means if I pray to him he can respond in my mind."

Zia stared. "Huh. Sounds helpful, I guess."

They stopped uneasily at the docks, hyper-aware of everything and everyone, tensing at every slight increase in sound. An old woman sat nearby with a spread of jewelry under an old red cloth that was doing a poor job of blocking the elements, and she regarded them with one open eye.

"Yeah?"

"Are you...selling any boats?"

The woman chuckled. "I wish. I just sell what you see." She pointed to the talismans before her. "Go check the end of the dock, there's usually a kid or two dumb enough to sell something off."

Ronan nodded. "Thank you."

"Sure thing."

He and Zia continued, wary of the way their horse's hooves, still muddied, slid on the wet wood of the dock. A step or three farther, Ronan figured, and it would careen off altogether, and take them both with it.

"Wait here," Ronan said after a moment of uneasy stillness. Zia nodded, relieved, urging their horse back on solid ground and dismounting onto the muddy street in front of the woman they had spoken to a moment prior, waving unenthusiastically when Ronan turned and made his way toward the figures huddled together at the end of the dock. His hand unconsciously drifted toward the place that _Amon'Llyra_ lay at his hip, but he forced it back down. The unease he felt was only growing.

He raised his voice above the wind. "I need to know if you've seen someone."

All eyes turned toward him. Those who had been talking stopped, while those that hadn't raised their eyebrows in a challenge. The one that seemed to be the leader stepped forward—he was tall, much taller than Ronan, with short-cropped blond hair and a sharp grin.

"Looking for a lost pet?"

Ronan, unimpressed, sighed. "He's got white hair, gray eyes, pale skin. He's about as tall as you."

Someone piped up from the back. "I saw your friend. Left about two hours ago on one of our boats."

Ronan cursed. "You have any of those boats left?"

"Who says we'll sell to you to begin with?" The leader spoke again and stalked forward. Ronan held his ground, holding the boy's gaze and saying nothing. He was sure he'd talk himself to boredom eventually.

"Who do you think you are, anyway? You look about as old as my kid brother, and you want to buy a boat? Where the fuck are you tryin' to go?"

"Kadena," he said, feigning disinterest.

The boy's eyes widened. "You fuckin' serious?" He turned back to the group of his friends that had gathered behind him. "Is this kid serious?"

"I'm serious." Ronan called their attention back to him. "I have business there." He narrowed his eyes meaningfully. "Urgent business."

The boy paled, but refused to back down. "And what's in it for us?"

"A horse and sixty gold."

"That's it?" The boy snorted. "You don't scare me, you know. That's not enough, and you know it." Unease blossomed in Ronan's chest. He had nothing else to offer; they hadn't had much at Terr'Havel, and he hadn't thought to throw anything heavier than his trident into the saddlebags.

"I..." He faltered.

The boy picked up where he had left off, laughing. "And here you were actin' all high and mighty like some sort of prince. Get off our dock until you have something good."

Ronan paused, his eyes widening. He straightened his shoulders. "What's your name?"

The boy stared at him, bewildered. "Nathaniel."

"And your family name?"

"Who's asking?" Ronan didn't answer, and the boy caved a moment later. "Uh, Atera."

"Nathaniel Atera," Ronan said. "If you sell me a boat, I will owe you a favor."

Nathaniel scoffed. "And why's that important?"

"Well." Ronan shrugged. "If I manage to live through the next few weeks, you'll have a favor waiting for you from the Adacian king." Seeing Nathaniel's hesitation, he continued. "Even if I die, I'll pass the information to someone who will pay off my debt."

Nathaniel stared. Then he laughed. Then the entirety of the group on the dock was laughing, elbowing each other, mimicking his declaration. Ronan sighed and pulled down his collar, revealing the wicked red of the Eye of Aevar, his single defining feature. Nathaniel was the first to stop laughing.

"Oh," he muttered. "Shit. You're—uh. Aldrea. Ronan Aldrea. You weren't fucking around."

"Unfortunately, I wasn't," Ronan agreed. The fight had gone out of him. "Now, will you sell me a boat or not?"

Nathaniel glanced back at his friends, his gaze uncertain. "Are there terms to this favor?"

"I won't kill anyone for you," Ronan said. "But if—and this is an if, remember that—I or any Adacian with my blessing takes the throne back, a hand will be lent should you ever need it. As long as it isn't, I don't know, nefarious—"

"No killing, no maiming. Got it. And this is in with the horse and the money?"

"Yes."

Nathaniel put out a hand. "Deal."

Ronan grinned and shook it. "Wonderful."

The boy turned and nodded toward a small boat that bobbed on the water, gray and slightly off-putting, with mildewed sails and an unreliable looking rudder. He didn't mind it at all.

"Follow me," Ronan said. "I'll get you your end of the deal."

Nathaniel did as he was told, trailing Ronan down toward the shore where he was able to flag down Zia, who led the horse over and looked Nathaniel up and down.

"She a royal too?"

Zia's gaze turned to Ronan incredulously. "You told this kid?"

"Just—" He ran a hand through his hair. "Give me a minute, alright?" He fished through the saddlebag and pulled out his coin purse, tossing it to Nathaniel and letting him count the money as he pulled the saddlebags from their horse and slung one over his shoulder while Zia took the other. His wounds, not quite healed enough to take this level of exertion gracefully, began to ache, and he gritted his teeth.

"This is enough." Nathaniel looked over their horse. Ronan ran a hand down its nose, murmuring a quiet "thank you." The poor creature deserved a break, he thought. It had served them well, and suffered for it.

"Good," Zia said. She glanced over at Ronan. "I assume you sealed the deal?"

"I did. We should get going." He didn't mention the pain he was in but Zia read it on him and winced in sympathy, nodding.

She started walking and Ronan followed, calling briefly over his shoulder, "pleasure doing business with you!"

Nathaniel, staring after him in shock, only managed a nod at first. Then, "'course, Aldrea! Good luck in Kadena!"

A few people looked up at the mention of the name, and Ronan cursed under his breath. "Had to offer him a favor as payment, what we had wasn't enough. We should get out of here before someone else catches on."

Zia looked uneasy. "Agreed."

Ronan pointed out their boat and nodded to it, ignoring Nathaniel's group behind him and the raging storm. Zia tossed in her saddlebag and then Ronan's, lowering herself into the small sailboat a moment later. There was a cabin, much to their relief, that—while small—provided more shelter than their previous ferry had. Zia tucked their bags away within it and offered a hand to Ronan, who took it as he jumped down onto the deck beside her. He swayed when he landed, and Zia steadied him, looking him in the eye with a startling intensity.

"You sure you're up for this?"

Ronan hesitated. His mind was still clouded, his eyes hazy. He would have said no, but they were too far along and it was too dangerous for either to go off alone—and then there was Acaeus. Solitary, reckless, likely facing more danger than they were. If he'd left a few hours ago, he had a head start they couldn't afford to give.

"Ronan?"

"If Acaeus already left, we don't have a choice."

"Did you figure out how long ago that was?"

"A few hours."

"Shit." Zia sighed and closed her eyes. "We need to leave. Gods, I'm furious."

Zia turned, and Ronan couldn't help but think that she didn't look angry anymore, only tired. There was no fight in her eyes, nothing but a deep, restless sorrow and a fear unlike anything she had ever displayed. He was tempted to reach out to her but she moved too quickly, past him and on toward the ropes, untying those attaching their ship to the dock with nimble fingers.

"I think I should speak to Shivaroth," he said suddenly. Zia looked at him for a moment, then nodded.

"Good idea. Tell him what's happening, see if he has any advice. I'll get us out to sea, and then we can switch off on sailing."

Ronan glanced up at the sky, just visible enough to guide them to Kadena when the stars emerged. He wondered briefly if they would even make it to their destination—the seas seemed intent on dragging them down.

"Alright. Shout if you need anything."

Zia nodded without turning. The energy that hung over them was dreary and viciously anticipatory, and when Ronan turned and ducked into the small, rickety cabin, he felt the weight of it ever more intensely. He dropped to his knees, exhausted, and lowered his head into his hands.

The boat lurched forward. Ronan shut his eyes.

"Shiva," he murmured, reaching out with his mind, trying to reconnect to the warmth that accompanied the god's soothing voice. "Are you there?"

For a few minutes there was nothing but silence. Anxiety mounted in Ronan's heart, and he tried again. "Shivaroth?"

There was a surge of energy, distinct and overwhelming, and Ronan winced. The sounds of the storm faded out to be replaced by a frazzled voice. Shivaroth's, but decidedly different than usual.

" _Ronan? Are you okay?_ "

Ronan froze, cautious. "Are you?"

" _I—_ " Shivaroth seemed to draw back through their bond. Had he been corporeal on Ronan's end, he was sure the god would have been fidgeting. " _I am...functional_."

"Functional isn't exactly okay." Ronan frowned. "What's wrong?"

" _I am tired_ ," Shivaroth muttered. " _I am not used to being tired. I dislike it immensely_."

"Have you slept at all?"

" _No_ ," he said. " _I have been too busy to sleep_."

"Doing what?"

" _Research_." He paused, reluctant. " _And I have been worried_."

"Worried?"

" _I should have come with you_ ," the god murmured, mostly to himself. " _I can sense—no. I am being paranoid. That is all, I apologize._ His guard was back up. Ronan knew from experience that answers from Shivaroth only came when he allowed them—this would have to be dropped for the time being.

"I wish you would take better care of yourself," Ronan said softly.

They were both silent for a moment, their minds mingled, half together and half apart, before Shivaroth said something quietly.

" _Would it be too forward to ask you to keep the link open until you reach Kadena?_ "

"What?" Ronan paused. "No, I don't think so." It meant the god would be a passenger in his mind until they got to shore, an exhausting concept, but he couldn't deny that it felt safer than the alternative. He may have his doubts about Shivaroth's honesty when it came to Ronan's hallucinations, but he could feel his genuine concern and care through their bond—he knew that his feelings, at least, were no lie.

Shivaroth breathed a sigh of relief. " _Thank you_." Ronan felt him falter. " _Are you far?_ "

"From Kadena? Not very. We had to pawn off our horses to get us here and I now owe a favor to a boy in Fahl's Peak, but we got a ship that will take us there."

Shivaroth chuckled. " _That sounds eventful_." He paused for a moment, tone turning serious. " _But I suppose we should get to the point. There must have been a reason that you contacted me_."

"Yes, I—I did pray for a reason." Every part of him was screaming _I miss you, I'm afraid, I need you_ —he was sure Shivaroth could feel it, but instead he said, "I needed to ask you something."

" _Of course_ ," Shivaroth murmured. He mercifully did not mention the tremor in Ronan's voice, the hint of fear. " _What is it?_ "

Ronan curled his toes. "Did you put Aevar's blade in my saddlebag?"

Deafening silence.

" _Amon'Llyra_?" Shivaroth whispered after a moment. He sounded slightly ill. " _Is it—is it with you?_ "

Ronan trailed a finger along its jagged tip, careful not to cut himself. Light glinted off the blade, illuminating the raw tracks of Aevar's blood on his hands. This was the brand of an _Avok'Shai_ ; in myth, it was said that godsblood would burn like acid if touched by mortal flesh, and this confirmed it. His hands would scar, burned in any place Aevar's blood had touched his skin, there was no doubt about it anymore.

"It is," Ronan said.

" _I did not put it there. I was keeping it...with me. It was next to my scimitar, hanging on my belt. I do not understand how it made its way to..._ " Shivaroth's voice slowed to a stop.

"What? Shiva, what is it?"

" _Nothing_." The god's response was clipped. " _Nothing, it was just a thought. It will not mean anything to you on its own. When you get back, we will talk at length_." His voice took on a quality of deadly seriousness. " _I promise_."

Ronan, intending to push until he received an answer, consequences be damned, was cut off before he could speak—not by Shivaroth, but by Zia. He wondered how long he had been in the cabin—it couldn't have been more than ten minutes, but they were both exhausted and ten minutes seemed far longer than an eternity. He pushed himself to his feet painstakingly, groaning at the full-body ache that followed. His head spun.

" _Ronan?_ "

"One minute," he muttered. "Need to see what Zia needs."

He poked his head out of the cabin, squinting through the rain at where Zia sat at the stern, drenched and sullen.

"You want me to take over?" His voice was hoarse and rough, each word grating against his throat. They were both on the verge of collapse, but Ronan was more than willing to take the burden off of Zia's shoulders if he could. She nodded gratefully, her eyes downcast.

"Please," she breathed. "How was Shivaroth?"

"He's still around, actually," Ronan said sheepishly. "Said he wanted to stay in touch until we reached Kadena."

"Oh." Zia didn't sound surprised. "That's nice of him." As she got up and passed the cold wooden tiller to Ronan, she said, "It's still weird to have a god on our side."

"I know." Ronan shivered as the rain battered him from behind. Zia began to turn but he called out to her before she could, catching her attention with a quick wave. "Try to get some sleep, alright? We have an hour or two left should all go well, you should rest if you can."

Zia looked at him skeptically, her brow furrowed. "And you'll wake me up if you need me?"

"Of course."

Ronan nodded a farewell as she ducked into the cabin and shut the door against the wind. The moment she was gone he folded in on himself, clutching the tiller in stiff hands and pulling his waterlogged cloak tighter around him. The cloth was useless by now, but he wasn't quite willing to let it go. He needed any cover he could get.

He exhaled. There was nothing ahead of them but choppy waves and a dark sky—it must have started getting dark at some point, because the dim halo of clouds and fog that covered the sun had drifted lower in front of the bow. Ronan kept his eyes on the sky, however, as the stars had begun to show themselves. The star that pointed West toward Kadena, so ironically named the Eye of Aevar, was straight off the front of their vessel. He begged the clouds to remain thin enough that he could navigate them to their destination without disaster.

His eyes had started to close without him noticing. He jerked upright, shaking the water from his hair.

"Shivaroth," he said quickly, an edge of panic to his words. If he fell asleep in this weather, they'd capsize in an instant. As it was he had to strain to keep the rudder steady, and the rope holding the sail in place was tied off near his knee, easily reachable in an emergency. Both things required his full attention—he couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk doing something that would hurt Zia, and he couldn't leave Acaeus to his fate in Kadena. There was only one way to do this, and that meant that he had to stay awake.

" _Is something wrong?_ "

"Will you—" he winced at a sudden pain in his right eye, likely a result of the harsh weather. He rubbed it absentmindedly, pressing his palm against his eyelid a moment later when it started to ache. "Will you talk to me? About anything. I just need to stay awake."

" _Are you sailing?_ "

"Yes."

" _I would urge you to sleep when you get the chance, but doing so while trying to keep a ship steady would not be ideal_." Shivaroth's tone turned thoughtful. " _What would you like me to talk about?_ "

"I'm not sure," Ronan murmured. "Tell me a story. One I don't know."

" _Hm_." Shivaroth paused for a moment, and Ronan kept his gaze fixed on the steadily darkening horizon, ignoring the lingering pain in his eye and the numbness in his fingers. By the time he had started to forget about his request, Shivaroth started talking.

" _In legend, there is a place beyond Ishtel and beyond Feihjelm, composed of materials unknown, that according to the old stories resides somewhere to the left of our realm. You know of the Void Gate, do you not?_ "

"The hole torn in our reality by the blades of the Three," Ronan said blearily, reciting what he had read in countless history books. "I remember."

" _Indeed. Aevar used to tell me that he knew a way through it, a way to get to this realm that sat slightly to the left of our own, one where there was no strife and no death. It bored him, but it always fascinated me. Of course, it does not truly exist—there is nothing beyond the Void Gate, but—_ "

"How do you know?"

" _What_?"

"How do you know there's nothing beyond it?"

" _We have ways of seeing, Ronan. There is nothing within it but the beings of darkness Aevar held off in the Seventh Siege. We looked to be sure, but there is nothing, and the gate is much too dangerous to reopen even if it were possible_."

"It can't be reopened?"

" _Not to our knowledge_ ," Shivaroth said. " _Aevar sealed it. That is what happened to Amon'Llyra, actually_."

Ronan straightened up at the mention of the broken blade at his hip. "Will you tell me that story?"

" _If you wish to hear it_." Shivaroth's voice was even and steady, a calm force that clashed defiantly with the violence of the sea and sky. Ronan clutched at the tiller, struggling to keep it straight.

" _Amon'Llyra was forged in the flames of one of your mountains. Inafersaan, it was called then. I believe you refer to it now as Maha'tana, fire-tamer. The mountain, back when it still held magma within, was said to have the power to create an unbreakable blade, and true to its legend, Amon'Llyra withstood every blow it took. It was a powerful weapon fit for a god and Aevar wielded it well, his brutality a perfect compliment to the sword's grace_." Ronan leaned forward, intrigued.

" _When it was whole_ ," Shivaroth murmured, " _it was truly the strongest weapon I had ever seen. Amon'Llyra was capable of striking down anything that stood in its path—Aevar just gave the blade the hand it needed to do so_."

The rope connected to the sail strained as the wind picked up. Ronan moved one hand from the rudder and held onto it just in case, fully aware of the dangers of losing their sail in the middle of a storm. Shivaroth continued as he worked.

" _When it broke we were nearing the end of the Seventh Siege on Feihjelm. We call it Nahkrann, the Night War. The old gods, the two that remained, were angry. One of their own had fallen at the hands of two of ours, Aevar and Eltirash, and they tore a hole in the very fabric of our realm with their blades, commemorating their fallen sibling with a method of destruction so great that they meant to bring down our pantheon_." Shivaroth sounded breathless. " _Now, the 'me' that I am currently was not alive for these events. My old self was, though—back then I was of the first of the gods, one of the most powerful and the most respected. They called me Leta'Anvaroth, a...respectful way to say my name. It means 'Great Weaver of Dreams'. I am new, now. I have the memories of that incarnation of the Dreamweaver, but I am not him. I am no longer Leta'Anvaroth. Treat this as if I am telling someone else's story. It is mine, but it is also not_."

"Okay," Ronan said. Shivaroth continued a moment later, after pondering his own words for a time.

" _I—that is to say, my old body—accompanied Aevar to the gate on the final day of the siege. This gate was a dark thing, Ronan, darker than anything I had ever seen. Every moment, something new crawled from it, a creature of pure brutality. They had not only the wish to kill us but the power to do so, and their numbers were expanding. Aevar was convinced that if he could break the gate, the creatures would be drawn back into it, and I believed him. We all believed him. He was the strongest among us_."

"Was it a physical structure?"

" _Somewhat_ ," Shivaroth said slowly. " _It was corporeal to those that believed it to be corporeal. To me it was simply a tear in the realm, but Aevar spoke of it as a hulking gate of obsidian. He said he could see himself within it if he looked hard enough. He was convinced that he would die if he touched it, so when we went to the gate on the Llyra'Teha, the Victory Day, he would not approach unless I walked in front of him. I did as he asked, and we approached unnoticed as the others fought the hordes of dark creatures to distract them from our operation. When we reached it, Aevar seemed to change. He had an odd respect for it after years of nothing but hatred, and he bowed low before it, thanking it for the challenge it had provided_."

Ronan's stomach lurched. He remembered the reverence with which Aevar had looked at him before bringing the blade down into his torso, the quiet thanks he had offered. The god had seemed like a different person, then, and Ronan could picture Shivaroth's words perfectly.

"... _he raised Amon'Llyra over his head_ ," Shivaroth was saying, " _and brought it down in a clean arc, slicing through the gate easily, and for a moment I could see the stone Aevar had always spoken of, obsidian and bone and something else, crumbling beneath it. And then it caught. Amon'Llyra shrieked, the metal sliding against something it could not cut, and it began to splinter. Aevar, too stubborn to pull back and confident in the unbreakable blade, only pushed harder. He asked me to help him and I did—I unsheathed my scimitar and brought it down on top of his sword as hard as I could upon his command, and together we pushed through the last of the gate, watching it crumble to obscurity before us. But when Aevar tried to pull back, Amon'Llyra didn't come. Half of the blade had gone into the collapsing gate, it had been touched by the darkness_."

" _Aevar would not let go, but he was still convinced that the darkness would bring his death. He begged me to break his blade with mine, and I did all I could to obey him, driving my scimitar down on his sword again and again, until the cracks that had already appeared from the gate and the cracks spreading from my blows finally met and the blade shattered between my hand and the crumbled ruins of the thing we had destroyed._ " Shivaroth sighed. " _It is not a terribly climactic story, though I suppose Aevar was not the most climactic being. He approached everything as if it was a challenge, but never as if it was anything special. He was too arrogant_."

Ronan was silent. The blade at his hip felt heavier than it had previously, weighted with its newfound history. A new thought occurred to him, one separate from Aevar and all that he had touched, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

"Shivaroth?"

" _Yes?_ "

"You talk about this version of yourself like he was better than you."

There was a pause. When the god did speak, it was reluctant and quiet. " _He was_." He continued before Ronan could object.

" _I have not been alive for a very long time. I have not seen what my siblings have seen. The memories that I do have are...false, someone else's. I have the same power, the same realm, the same face, but I am new. I am weak. I am but a child in the pantheon's eyes, and I will never be anything more. It is not something to pity me for; it is simply fact. I am not who Leta'Anvaroth was, therefore my siblings cannot see me as worthy of taking his place_."

"But they respect you," Ronan said. "I heard the way Felhan spoke to you. Of you, even."

" _They do, yes. They know I carry a powerful mantle. I am respected and feared as Leta'Anvaroth was before me, but I—_ " He trailed off. " _I am not explaining this well. It is not an easy concept for a mortal to grasp_."

"No, I think I get it." Ronan winced as a particularly frigid gust of wind caught him off guard. "They respect what you stand for, but still see you as only part of who you were before."

" _Something like that_ ," Shivaroth assented. " _Yes_."

"Listen, I..." Ronan scuffed the bottom of his shoe against the deck of the ship. "I know I'm no god, and I know I have no way of comprehending the gravity of this situation, so this probably won't mean much to you, but I think you—uh." He shook his head. "I think this..."

" _Are you alright?_ "

"I think this version of you is just as good as Leta'Anvaroth," he mumbled. "If not better."

Neither of them spoke. Ronan kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the horizon. He wished Shivaroth would say something, anything, if only just to break the silence—

" _Thank you,_ " the god whispered. " _Truly. You—you have no idea how much that means_."

"Of course." Ronan's relief was tangible. "I—"

Something scraped the bottom of the boat. The sound was thunderous; the wood groaned and creaked, the deck shuddered, and finally the tiller, which he had clutched onto the moment he had sensed something was wrong, gave a mighty crack and splintered beneath his hands. He looked down in shock; the wooden rudder ended halfway down in a jagged stub, and when he looked back behind them, a trail of wood had floated to the surface. Parts of the hull, pieces of the keel, the rudder.

They had struck a reef.

"No," he whispered.

Multiple things happened in quick succession. The door to the cabin opened. Zia stepped out, her eyes wide. The rope by Ronan's knee snapped. The sail, untethered, swung violently forward. Shivaroth said his name, panicked and sharp.

Then the boom, propelled by the very sail it weighed down, struck Zia in the temple. The boat banked hard, tossed by the waves as if it were nothing. Ronan screamed her name. By the time he had wiped the seawater from his eyes, she was gone. 


	18. XVIII. Blood in the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ronan makes a promise.

For a moment Ronan could do nothing. He couldn't hear. He couldn't move. His eyes were fixed on the place Zia had fallen.

The sea was too rough. He couldn't see her, and she didn't come up for air. He knew he needed to move, needed to act, needed to help her—

He looked at the sky. At the gods that ruled beyond it.

"If you take her from me," he growled, "I swear you will live to regret it."

Ronan turned, and dove into the sea.

The shock was so intense that the moment he hit the water the warmth and security he had come to associate with Shivaroth's presence in his mind was ripped away. The god's voice vanished. He took a deep breath and dove down—that was a problem he would address later. Zia was who mattered now. Only her.

The waves were not gentle as they had been in his childhood. They were violent and sharp, battering him the moment his body was submerged. His shoulder was slammed hard into a sharp ridge covered in jagged points—the reef they had struck, he was willing to wager. He forced his eyes to open against the sting of the salt and the agony spreading across his arm.

There was no sign of Zia.

He came up for air desperately, gasping for breath. Had he waited too long? There was no way to see where she'd fallen. She must have been unconscious, which meant by now she'd have no air left in her lungs. He couldn't wait. He couldn't waste time considering trivial details. He dove back down.

This time he moved with purpose, picking a direction and striking out, swimming with a strong stroke he'd learned from his father and keeping his eyes wide and alert.

The reef surrounded him entirely. He was unsure how they had gotten so far into it without incident, as it looked to stretch at least a mile in every direction, close enough to the surface that he could have walked on it. It was an odd mix of coral and lava rock, sharp and unforgiving, surrounding him on every side.

Through the darkness of the water, his eyes fell on something gold. A locket, he recognized, one he'd seen many times before. His hand shot out and wrapped around the chain. It was snapped in two, but easily distinguishable. Zia's.

He bit the inside of his cheek and stuck out his free hand, catching onto a nearby spire of the reef and digging his nails in hard. The tips of his fingers split and began to bleed but he gritted his teeth and held on, looking intently in the direction it had come from.

Holding his breath was becoming a challenge, but he knew Zia had it worse. She would die in minutes if he couldn't find her, and his time was rapidly running out. The locket that he clutched was frigid to the touch, and he shoved it into his pocket.

Ronan's vision was beginning to swim. He kicked up to the surface, took a breath, and—

Zia's cloak was floating at the surface. It billowed oddly, air trapped under the waterlogged cloth, dragged down by something heavier beneath.

A cry was torn from his lips. He kicked roughly, battling the waves, willing to do anything to save the life of his closest friend. He ignored the burning agony of his not-quite-healed wounds. He couldn't lose Zia. He couldn't. She was so vibrant, so real and genuine, someone he loved more than the stars. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, their warmth mingling with the rain. His hands clutched onto the cloak. He couldn't lose her.He couldn't lose _her_.

"Zia!" Her name was a prayer on his lips. He reached down into the water, one hand latching onto the cloak until the other found her arm, limp and lifeless, cold to the touch. He hauled himself onto the reef, ignoring the multitude of cuts the rock inflicted upon his skin as he pulled Zia up after him.

The reef itself must have been a manifestation of mercy. It was raised enough that the water barely reached over the top, a perfect place for them to rest without fear of drowning. With his sweep of their position complete, he turned his attention to Zia.

The place she had been struck by the sail bled heavily, pouring down her face and into her limp hair, staining the black with a sickening red. Her dark skin had taken on a corpse-like shade and her lips were blue and unmoving. He checked for her pulse with the tips of his fingers and found nothing, not at her wrist and not at her throat. With shaking hands Ronan pushed her hair away from her face and leaned down, pressing his ear to her chest and listening for a heartbeat, a breath, anything.

It was silent. Silent except for the storm that had just taken the life of the one person who had been with him since the beginning of it all. It had taken a queen, a warrior, a friend—someone more dear to people than it could have possibly imagined.

Ronan threw back his head and screamed.

The sound was agonized; a hoarse cry that was joined by the wind, their joined sounds violent and harsh, ones that could not be ignored even by the gods themselves. His hands tightened in her clothes. Ronan thought desperately back to his childhood, remembering Zia beside him, her grins and laughter, her deft hand while sailing—

Ronan froze. The breath went out of him as if stolen.

He knew what to do.

He lowered his head, checking again for breath as he'd seen Wynne do so long ago. Upon finding none he steadied himself, lowering Zia onto her back, ignoring the thin layer of water over the reef and positioning the heel of his hand on her chest, shifting his position before he began to mimic Wynne's movements.

When he and Zia had been children, they'd seen a boy drown. He had fallen into the water from a low footbridge and hadn't resurfaced. When his mother pulled his body from the water Ronan was sure he hadn't been breathing, and he'd watched Wynne gently take the mother's place and begin to press on the boy's chest, keeping her hands steady until she leaned down and gave the boy air.

One, he counted, pressing his hands down. Two. Three. Four. Five. His hands moved swiftly, keeping a steady rhythm. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten.

The boy had lived, he recalled. He'd coughed the water up and his mother had thanked Wynne through tears. If she hadn't been there, Ronan remembered thinking, that boy would have died.

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.

He had been so scared that he had clutched Zia's hand, but she seemed calm, understanding what Wynne was doing and watching her carefully, so Ronan had started to do the same. He'd studied the movements, the alternation between compression and breath, the steadiness of Wynne's hands.

Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

He bent suddenly, plugging Zia's nose with one hand and tilting her chin back with the other. He connected their lips and pushed the air from his lungs into hers, his hands shaking much more than Wynne's had. He hurriedly returned to the compressions.

The boy had lived. Zia would live. He refused to believe she was gone, that he had wasted too much time, that her eyes wouldn't reopen. He could fix this, he thought. He could fix it.

He repeated the cycle. Compressions. Breath. His movements became jerky from the cold and from shock. Zia was still. He refused to give up.

Compressions. Breath. Compressions.

Ronan was so intent in his actions that he did not see her eyes open, did not hear her first choking breath until she lurched up and vomited water into the roiling sea, shaking and weak but alive, alive, gasping for air and very much alive—

He lurched forward, supporting her shoulders, holding her up. She coughed harshly, the sound alone enough to make him shudder, but his hands were steady. When she collapsed back against him and closed her eyes, he didn't move. He caught his breath, held Zia against him, checked her pulse at her throat—weak but present—and looked around them.

"Zia," he murmured as his eyes scanned their surroundings, "you're alright. It's—" he looked down. Her head had fallen against his chest. "Zia?" She didn't stir. She was unconscious, he realized, but alive, which got him out of one predicament and into another.

They were stranded. He refused to let himself think about the rest of it. About Zia's blue lips and frigid skin. If he let himself give into his shock they would die out there, and all of the pain they had endured would have been for nothing.

Their boat was gone. It had either been pulled beneath the waves or simply out of their sight, beyond the violent swells that had pushed it over to begin with. It was no longer an option. Their position as it stood was precarious: they sat on a ledge of lava rock, one that stretched out farther than he could even begin to imagine, but the water, violent as it was, only came up to his knees. Off of the rock the water was gods knew how deep, waiting to drag them down. It was safe if they wanted to remain stationary, perched on their bit of reef, but they had neither the guarantee of safety nor the luxury of time, leaving them with one option.

They had to get to shore.

There was only one thing he could think to do. Their position was an impossibility, and who better to deal with an impossibility than a god? He reached out with his mind to Shivaroth, his prayer weak and desperate, before he felt the words he had offered slam up against a barrier in his mind.

His eyes widened. Whatever connection there had been was now entirely gone, inaccessible, cold and dead. His hands began to shake harder.

"Okay," he whispered to himself. It was too—too _crowded_ in his mind, he had to think aloud. "Okay. I'm effectively alone. I'm stranded. I have to get Zia and I to shore." He looked around and continued his murmuring, filling the silence.

"If we've hit a reef, we must be closer to Kadena than we thought. On maps the reefs stretch up to the shore, leaving a ring of shallow waters between it and solid ground. This reef should lead us to the shallows if we walk along it." He hauled himself to his feet, hooking Zia's arm over his shoulders and pulling her up with him so that she was slumped against his side. Her body was completely limp and he struggled to lift her, eventually giving up and hooking his arm beneath her knees and carrying her as a groom would his bride, planting his feet when he was standing upright again.

Ronan took a cautious step forward once he'd made sure Zia was secure, searching with the toe of his boot for the ledge of rock beneath the water. It stretched farther and was seemingly solid enough, supporting him with ease as he cautiously stepped forward. He began to move slowly, moving one foot first and planning his next step before moving the other, too afraid of the water around them to be anything less than meticulous. He had a sinking feeling that another brush with the ocean would spell out both of their deaths; he couldn't afford to fall in again, as he feared he wouldn't have the strength to get himself back out.

The rock made their passage ever more difficult. It was slick, coated in seaweed and barnacles, and after an hour had passed he had fallen so many times that he was sure his knees were a bloodied mess without even needing to look. His body threatened to give out, his muscles taut and aching from exertion, but the fact that Zia was in his arms pushed him forward through the storm. She was needed—by her people, by the archipelago, by his Circle. She could not be lost, and therefore he could not allow the elements to take her from him again. Until she was awake, her safety fell to him, and he did not intend to fail her.

It was another hour at least before he saw it. A dark shape on the horizon, one barely visible through the rain and darkness. At first he thought it to be a wave, massive and dark and reaching, but it was entirely stationary. He froze where he stood.

"Kadena," he whispered aloud. He trudged forward with a renewed vigor, his eyes wide and his heart pounding, steady until he forgot to check for his next step and his foot slid from the side of the ledge. He cried out, losing his grip on Zia and dropping her onto the reef before he fell sideways into the water. He was pulled under almost instantly, dragged by an undertow that threatened to overwhelm him, but his battered fingers dug into the rock he had fallen from and held on until the waves stopped pulling and instead pushed hard, slamming his body against the reef. The right side of his head hit first, then his shoulder and chest. He could feel his skin tear, on his cheek and forehead and then his arm, and with a shaking hand he reached up to the surface, pulling himself above the waterline and gasping for breath. Zia lay stationary above him, still breathing softly. He exhaled in relief, hauling himself up and sitting on his knees as water streamed from his hair and clothes and mingled with the blood that drenched him. His injuries were all minor, most numb from the cold, but he could feel his energy fading rapidly.

They were so close. Tears brimmed in his eyes. So, so close. He had to get them to shore. It was up to him. He had to.

"Come on," he said breathlessly as he lifted Zia back up. His muscles screamed in protest. "We're—" his voice broke on a sob. He had to struggle to catch his breath. "We're going to make it."

He kept his head up. All thoughts of their purpose on Kadena had vanished from his mind, leaving nothing but a driving terror behind his conviction. His feet dragged as he moved forward. He mentally catalogued all the material they had left: the clothes they wore, the emergency medical supplies in the pouches on their belts, and _Amon'Llyra_ , still miraculously hanging at his hip. No other clothes, no food, no weapons. They were entirely on their own. His mind, too frazzled to ponder the implications of that, shied away from reality.

When Ronan put his foot out the next time, searching for the solid ground of the reef, he found none. There was none to the left, none to the right, only the path he had walked on to make it there.

There was still at least one hundred feet of water between him and the shore. He shouted into the wind, wordless and livid. His legs gave out. He landed hard on the rocks, tearing a cry from his lips, and held Zia's body to his chest. He would have to swim. There was no other option. But swimming while exhausted was a feat in itself—swimming while supporting another added another level of impossibility.

His eyes narrowed.

"Damn it all," he muttered. He set Zia down and undid the cloak around her shoulders before doing the same with his, letting it drop in a sodden heap behind him. It would only drag him down. He left his boots and jacket on, knowing he'd need them for the road ahead, but shed everything unnecessary, unwilling to carry any more weight than he had to.

He looked out at the sea.

It had not calmed since their last meeting, but the shallows would be easier to navigate than the open ocean once they got out of the pull from the reef. It was a straight shot to the shore, which he could hardly see through the darkness. It seemed to be rocky, inhospitable, with a forest beyond it that bowed with the wind.

His gaze shifted to Zia.

Even if she had been awake, the shock of drowning would have weakened her limbs to the point that she would not have been able to make it to the shore. As it stood, Ronan was unsure whether he would be able to himself. He knelt down, removing a small stretch of rope from his belt and binding Zia's hands with a wince and a whispered apology. When the knot was secure, he slid the loop of her bound arms over his head, lifting her with a groan and a harsh exhale. Even if he lost his grip on her in the water, her hands would catch around his neck. As long as the rope held, they would be bound together, neither of them swept out to sea without the other.

"Okay," Ronan said slowly. He took a step toward the water, preparing himself. He had hooked a hand beneath Zia's knee, holding her in an awkward piggy-back, leaving one arm free to paddle them toward the shore. He would have to jump out far enough to avoid the waves battering the reef—if he could do that, the currents would be in their favor, pushing them toward the shore as they swam.

He took a step back, then another, then forced himself to run forward—the speed he had gathered was mercifully enough, and he landed feet-first in the water beyond the choppiness of the waves, kicking up for air a moment later. Zia coughed when they resurfaced, her body working to keep more water from her lungs, and Ronan struck out for the shore.

"Easy," he choked out as Zia began to cough again. "Not long now." His legs were cramping, the muscles so entirely exhausted that he doubted their ability to keep him going, but he kept his head up and kicked anyway. The waves pushed him from behind as he struggled forward, easing their passage. He kicked against them until at last the tip of his boot struck a rocky bottom, one that he was able to stand up on a moment later and walk, numb and shaking, from the sea that had tried to claim them. He walked until the water was far behind them and they stood at the edge of the forest, putting distance between himself and the storm, before he let himself collapse to his knees.

He slid Zia's arms up and over his head, off of his neck, and set her down gently on the ground beneath the trees. He took _Amon'Llyra_ from his belt next and sliced the frayed rope he'd tied around her wrists, leaving her arms folded at the base of her stomach.

They had made it. The shore was uneven and painful to rest on but they had made it out alive, and that's what mattered. The only thing to worry about now was shelter. Acaeus would have to come later; there was no way, even if Zia had been conscious, that they would have been able to travel in their condition.

His eyes scanned the forest before them. The trees were large, too big to circle his arms around, and densely grown. One in particular caught his eye—it was ancient and reaching, with a mass of roots that arced up in a canopy-like mound, protecting a deep pocket of dry ground beneath it. It was empty save for a few fallen leaves and twigs, and he nearly cried in relief. It was easily big enough for both him and Zia to fit in side by side, and tall enough to kneel in. He forced himself to stand and pulled Zia up beside him, slinging her arm over his shoulders and walking forward while her toes dragged along the ground.

When they finally reached the tree, he was gasping for breath. He lowered Zia down first, positioning her so her back was against the tree and the roots shielded the entirety of her body, and then climbed in himself. For a long while all he did was stare ahead into the darkness. The shock of being out of the storm, of being safe, was enough to send him reeling, and all he could do was sit quietly and try to catch his breath. By the time the episode was over he was hollow and exhausted. He pushed himself up onto his knees with a low moan, knowing that there was one more thing he had to do before he could sleep.

Ronan dug into the pouch hanging at his belt and drew out a roll of bandages. Wynne had thought ahead when giving it to him and wrapped it in waterproof wax paper, so when he pulled it out the cloth was mostly dry and still as pristine as it had been at Terr'Havel. He turned to Zia, gently pushing her hair back from the wound at her temple, which had stopped bleeding but swelled a great deal. The skin was bruised and firm when he touched it to wipe some of the blood away, and he winced in sympathy. The cut itself was quite shallow, but he wrapped a segment of the bandage around it anyway, unwilling to risk an infection. When he was done he tied the bandage off and sat back on his heels, checking her hands and arms for any further injuries. Upon finding no more than scrapes, he turned his gaze to his own body.

His boots were torn to shreds, the soles tattered and cut up from the barnacles and lava rock. Worse than that were his pants, which had been entirely frayed at the knees, revealing a bloody mess of flesh beneath. He stifled a cry when he painstakingly took off his boots and pulled up his pant-legs.

Bits of rock were visible in the moonlight that filtered through their root-woven roof, splintered in the cuts that were strewn across his legs. The injuries were gruesome and he steeled himself, knowing that the risk of infection was too high to leave them be no matter how much he may have wanted to look away. Without fresh water all he could do was pull out the larger splinters of stone. He was sure there were some that went unnoticed in the night but he pulled out the ones he could, ignoring the tears that ran steadily down his cheeks and the malicious burn that was spreading over his legs.

He and Zia would be okay, he decided as he worked, simply because they had to be. There was no other option—Kadena was a new land, and the sea stood between them and home. With no way to go back, their only option was to push forward and pray that they'd make it out alive—though he couldn't help but wonder who exactly he would be praying to. Shivaroth was the only hospitable option, but for whatever reason, he was off the table.

His energy finally left him. He put the medical supplies aside and leaned back against the tree beside Zia, keeping his legs straight out in front of him. He turned his head slowly, his eyes coming to rest on Zia's face.

Her lips were no longer blue, though she still looked sickly. Ronan leaned forward so that their shoulders touched, an action that he hoped would provide them both with a bit more warmth. Had Wynne been present, she would have known if Zia's persisting unconsciousness was an issue, but as it was Ronan only had enough knowledge of medicine to pray that it wasn't.

He couldn't stand to lose her after everything.

"You're going to be okay, Zia," he murmured as his eyes slid shut. His head was spinning, yearning for sleep, but he managed two more words, broken and small.

"I promise."


	19. XIX. Lady of Black Feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> help arrives in unlikely forms.

The sleep Ronan had fallen into was deeper than anything he had ever experienced. He didn't dream, didn't move, hardly breathed. He woke up once to the sound of thunder and once to a voice accompanied by a blinding light, but each time he fell back into the darkness that beckoned so lovingly.

His body welcomed unconsciousness. He had never been more tired in his life, had never come closer to giving up than he had that night. It was unsurprising that he slept so deeply; no, the surprise came later in the form of a muffled voice, a woman's, and the feeling of something soft beneath him.

Ronan's eyes opened. It was a slow process—his vision blurred mercilessly, and when his gaze finally focused on what was above him, his serenity was replaced by a surge of panic.

He was not looking at roots, but at a simple wooden ceiling. The soft thing beneath him was a bed, the weight atop him a heap of blankets half kicked off, and the pressure on his wrists two loops of rope that bound his arms to the headboard.

Trying desperately to sit, he pushed hard with his feet and pulled at the ropes on his arms, ignoring the pain that accompanied it and dragging himself up so that his back was against the headboard and his arms were stretched to either side. The wood creaked violently as he moved, but he figured getting familiar with his surroundings was likely more important than worrying about the noise.

The room was small. A bowl of water and a cloth sat beside him on a small nightstand, and on a chair in the corner were his things—nothing had survived but his belt and _Amon'Llyra_ , small and unimpressive without her godly wielder. A clean set of clothes lay beside the rest, and Ronan did his best to steady himself.

He had no way of knowing how long he had been there. His memory was foggy and the curtains were pulled over the solitary window that sat across the room. With shaking hands, he pulled violently against his bonds, straining to break the rope despite the pain it caused him to move. The wood of the headboard groaned in protest and he narrowed his eyes, pulling harder. By the time he gave up and collapsed back against the bed, all he had succeeded in doing was agitating the skin beneath the ropes. His breath quickened.

There was nothing near him that would allow him to escape. Had he been able to reach the glass bowl of water he could have broken it and used a shard to cut through the ropes, but that would require a range of movement that he certainly didn't have. The sound, too, would have been—

He heard a door swing open in the other room. Before he could lie back and pretend to be asleep, the door to his own room opened to reveal a young girl in a cloak. She must have been only slightly over half his age, twelve or thirteen, and when she looked up and saw he was awake, her eyes widened.

"Oh!" She dropped the basket of herbs she'd been carrying and took a startled step back into the doorframe. "You—you are awake!" She spoke Adacian with an accent—Kadena spoke its own language, similar enough to his own for him to recognize most words, but he was immediately overcome with relief at the assurance that they would be able to communicate.

"You—" his voice was hoarse. The girl rushed forward, unafraid, and put a hand to his forehead. Ronan froze, shocked at her brazen movements, studying her face as she frowned.

"Your fever has broken," she said after a moment. "Good! The lady will be pleased."

Ronan stared at her. "Who are you?" A moment later, "What am I doing here?"

Something dawned on him, then, something he was ashamed to have not remembered the moment he awoke—he lurched forward, straining against the ropes that bound him. "The woman! The woman that was with me! Where is she?"

The girl looked at him with curiosity, in no rush to answer. "You are not what I imagined him to be like."

"What? Who?"

"The prince," the girl said. "People always said you were quiet and cowardly. You do not seem to be either of those things." She turned and set down her basket while Ronan looked down to indeed find the Eye of Aevar bared at his throat. "I am Ashana. You are in the village of Njefir, a few miles from Jahengard. We found you and your companion two days ago in the woods."

Ronan's heart dropped. "Two days?"

"The wounds in your legs had become infected." The girl—Ashana—drew back the blankets that covered his legs to reveal blood-stained bandages. She looked proud of herself. "I drained and bandaged them, as well as the wounds on your arms, and then sent for the lady."

"The woman who was with me," Ronan repeated frantically. "Is she—"

"She is perfectly alright. She was in worse shape than you, but the lady was able to draw the remaining water from her lungs and prevent pneumonia before it could take hold. The wound on her head was not terribly serious, either. She has not woken yet, but I would guess she will soon enough."

The tension ran out of Ronan's shoulders. "And I have you to thank for this?"

"Not only me," Ashana said, though her chest puffed up with pride. "The lady did most of the magic, but I made the medicine."

"Thank you," Ronan said sincerely. "You saved our lives, I'm sure of it." His curiosity got the better of him. "This lady of yours," he said slowly. "I suppose I should thank her too."

"It was nothing!" Ashana bounced on her toes. "It was fun to help a prince." At the mention of the lady, though, her young face became fiercely guarded. It was an amusing look on a child—it was rare to see one so serious.

"I will pass your thanks on to our lady," Ashana said. "She is very...happy with her anonymity, and would like to remain known only to our village. Outsiders are rarely trusted, even if they are royalty."

Ronan's eyes widened. "Does she know who I am? Does your village?"

"No! No, of course not. I kept that part a secret. Adacians are not much loved here, and as it is my duty as a healer to keep you safe, I would never give people a reason to hurt you further."

"Not much loved?"

"Many are afraid your war will draw in casualties from other islands," Ashana explained. "Esadon has gotten involved now, so their fears are being reinforced. We have no quarrel with the Adacian people, simply with your gods and your war."

Ronan nodded slowly, then looked out at the room past his own. Little was visible, but he could see a small fireplace and a table strewn with herbs and diagrams.

"Do you live here alone?"

Ashana grinned. "Yes! I am the village healer. It is custom that I live and practice alone."

"I see," Ronan said. "Do you get lonely?" The small talk was giving him the opportunity to plan his and Zia's departure. They would stay until Zia woke and then set back out—Acaeus was still out here, and now he was ahead of them. Two days was too much of a head start for Ronan to be comfortable with their situation. He tuned back in when Ashana began to speak.

"No, not really. My parents died when I was young, so I lived with my brother for a few years. When I was chosen to be the village healer, he built my workspace right next to his house, so all I have to do when I want to see anyone is walk next door." She smiled, then walked over to the chair in the corner and picked up _Amon'Llyra_.

"This sword is interesting," she said quietly. "I had always heard the Adacian heir wielded a trident."

"My trident was lost with our ship," Ronan said, tensing as she studied the blade closer. "That's the only weapon I had on me when Zi—when my companion and I went overboard."

Ashana, still holding _Amon'Llyra_ , made her way to his side and sliced through the ropes that bound his right hand. She passed him the blade and let him take care of the ropes on his left, stepping back and cautiously holding herself out of range of _Amon'Llyra_ until he set the broken sword down on the nightstand. He rubbed his wrists and winced.

"I am sorry I had to bind you," Ashana said sheepishly. "I just did not know which stories of you to believe. Some say you are timid and kind, others say you killed a god. I did not—"

Ronan made a choked sound. "They're saying I killed a god?"

Ashana inclined her head. "One of the Seven." She studied him. "Is it true? Did you—"

"My relationship with the Seven is...complicated." Ronan ran a hand through his hair. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and Ashana took two steps back, studying him warily.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," he said softly. "I swear that I will not harm you."

"Swear to who?"

Ronan raised an eyebrow. "I could swear to your gods, if you like. The Seven do not seem to be able to hear me on your island."

"That makes sense." Ashana studied him. " _Kadena'Niha_ —" Ronan struggled to translate the phrase, eventually settling on _Merciful Kadena_ ,"—is protected by the Three. The Seven have not been able to come here because our pantheon has been holding them off."

Ronan's eyes widened. That would explain Shivaroth's silence. "So prayers to the Seven would not go through from here, correct?"

"To my knowledge," Ashana said. "Though I have not tested that theory. Your gods have always seemed cruel to me. You have gods of war and chaos, death and strife. We have justice, truth, and protection."

"We have gods of other things," Ronan said. "Shivaroth weaves dreams. Hanwey guards the worthy and purveys serenity. Amiriah gives wisdom and grace. There are positives and negatives in every pantheon. While I am no friend of the Seven, I do know they did their best to uphold balance."

"You said 'did.' Past tense."

"Yes, well." Ronan stood, groaning at the pain that lanced through his knees and shins. Ashana steadied him, grabbing his elbow. "The Seven have let themselves go a bit. This war, for example. That is not balance. They say they are the positives and negatives of everything so they can balance each other out, but the negatives seem as if they have taken control as of late."

When Ashana was sure he was steady, she stepped away and nodded to the clothes left on the chair. "You can change if you like," she murmured. "I had to ruin the clothes you were wearing in order to treat your wounds, and I would imagine you would like to remedy that."

Ronan, nearly dead on his feet, nodded gratefully. "Thank you," he murmured.

"And your companion," Ashana said before she exited the room, "she really will be alright. You are lucky the lady was visiting when she was—pneumonia is not something I am able to prevent on my own. Her magic was invaluable."

He stopped, knowing he had to navigate his next words carefully.

"Are you sure I cannot extend my gratitude to her?" This "lady" of Ashana's sounded important. With no way of knowing their location in relation to the Ravenpledged camps that Acaeus had surely made it to by now, he needed to follow any potential leads he could reach.

"I am sure," Ashana said sternly. "She is not a secret I will give without reason."

"Alright," Ronan replied. "I understand." The door to the room he was staying in closed behind the young healer, and Ronan let his shoulders slump.

He had never been so tired.

He took his pants off first, a painful process during which he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out. The cloth had been cut off just above the knee to give Ashana room to work, and the ragged edges were stained with his blood and stiff with dried salt water. He discarded them and pulled on a pair of soft black breeches, grateful that they were loose enough to give his wounds room to breathe. He removed his tunic next, wincing at its state. The left sleeve had been removed and what remained of the rest of it was torn nearly to shreds—the reef had not been kind. The shirt he put on in place of it was fancier than he'd expected from a young girl in a small village—it was white, well-tailored, and secured at the cuffs with buttons made from iridescent abalone.

He examined himself briefly in a grimy mirror in the corner. The bandages around his shoulder showed through the cloth of his shirt while the ones on his legs were hidden, but he looked relatively presentable. His face, however, was visibly exhausted; his dark hair was wild, his cheeks and forehead sported scabs over the gashes and scrapes he'd received from his many encounters with the reef, and dark circles colored the skin around his eyes, which were weary in themselves.

At least he was alive. That was something to marvel at on its own.

His boots were missing, and he figured they had likely been too damaged to repair. A memory coming to the surface of his mind, Ronan rummaged through the pockets of his ruined pants until he found the cool weight of Zia's gold locket. He pocketed it, leaving his old clothes hanging over the back of the chair he'd taken the new ones from and limping hesitantly toward the door. His hand hovered over the handle for a moment before he opened it.

The rest of the house was warmly lit—candles and lanterns threw a soft glow on the wooden walls and furniture, and strings of herbs hung from the ceiling over a low table. He would have been more interested in the rest of the items adorning the house but his gaze slid past it all toward Ashana, who was bent over a rickety-looking wooden bed. The thing that had caught his eye was not Ashana or the bed she tended to, but the person neatly tucked into it, on her back with her eyes closed and her dark curls of hair spread out haphazardly over her pillow.

"Zia," he said softly. Ashana looked up at the agony in his voice.

"You do not have to worry." The girl reassured him with a small smile. "She really will be okay, I promise."

"I know," Ronan whispered. "I just—I saw..." He paled, and Ashana nodded to a chair beside the bed that he took gratefully. "She was dead," he said shakily. "I was almost too late."

Ashana's eyes had taken on a stern, mature quality. "But you made it, and she lived. You cannot fault yourself for what almost came to pass, Your Grace. There is still too much for you to worry about in the weeks to come; dwelling on the past will do nothing to lessen the hardships of the future."

Ronan dropped his head into his hands, pressing his palms against his eyelids hard enough that he could see grainy bursts of light behind them. "Yes," he said after a moment. She was right, but it wouldn't stop the flashes of memory, wouldn't banish the feeling of Zia's frigid skin beneath his touch. "I suppose so."

He raised his head. His vision cleared slowly and Ashana turned so she could begin to tend to the fire. A moment later he tentatively reached out a hand, brushing a few stray curls away from Zia's face, clamping his lip between his teeth to stifle the tears that threatened to stream down his cheeks without mercy. He took her necklace from his pocket, rescued from the waves, and clasped it around her neck before moving his hand to hers.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. He dozed through some of it, with his hand in Zia's, and sat with Ashana at her table for the rest. She made soup, which he accepted gratefully, and taught him an old card game she said was common in Kadena. They passed the time uneasily. The urgency of Acaeus' predicament was looming over his head, and though Ashana had no knowledge of the reason for his arrival on Kadena, she was not daft. She sensed the tension, sharp in the air. By the time it had gotten dark again, she finally voiced the question Ronan knew she had been dying to ask.

"Your Grace," she said slowly, hiding her mouth behind her hand of cards. "Pardon the intrusion, but I—uh. Why are you here?"

Ronan sighed. He had no reason not to tell her—she did not seem to be the sinister type, and he owed her for keeping him and Zia alive in the first place.

"I'm looking for someone," he said. "A friend. He came here at the same time that we did, but I suspect he's gotten a head start by now."

"A friend?" Ashana's brow furrowed. "What is his name? Word travels fast here, you know. I might have heard something."

"I doubt he's foolish enough to use it, but the name is Lesterium. He's—" Ronan looked up as Ashana's cards slipped from her fingers. She didn't seem to care about her spoiled hand, however, as her eyes were wide and fixed on Ronan.

"Lesterium?"

Ronan sat forward. "You know it?"

"I—" Ashana stood, pushing her chair back and darting toward the door. "Give me one minute! I will be right back!"

The door to the cabin slammed shut behind her, rattling the shelves and the small bottles of various herbs and medicines atop them. Ronan stared at the place she had been with poorly concealed shock.

"Alright," he said to no one. The healer's small house was silent save for the occasional crackling of the fire and Zia's steady breathing from her bed. Ronan set down his hand of cards and stood, examining the oddities and trinkets that were strewn about on the shelves. It hardly struck him as a child's home, but he supposed Ashana had responsibilities as the village healer that didn't allow her much time to be the child he was expecting. She didn't seem bothered by it, but he hoped she was able to enjoy herself once in a while.

The door was thrown back open, and Ronan nearly jumped back in surprise. Ashana ushered in a tall woman in a black cloak. Her face was hidden beneath her hood and Ronan studied her intently, meeting her shadowed eyes.

"This is the lady," Ashana said breathlessly. "Caught her—as she was leaving."

"For a good reason, I'd hope." Her stern words were betrayed by her slight smile. "Your patients seem to be doing well."

"They are not why you are here." Ashana tugged the lady forward by the sleeve. "I cannot be sure, but—say that name again. Please."

"I..." Ronan glanced between the two of them, startled by the sudden rush of conversation. "You mean Lesterium?"

The lady froze. She stood silently for a moment before she walked forward and took Ronan's chin between her fingers, tilting his head up so his brown eyes met her light gray.

"How do you know that name?"

"How do you?" He countered. He knew Acaeus wasn't on good terms with the Ravenpledged. If this woman was his enemy, he couldn't risk it. He was fully prepared to—

"Because I am of that family," the woman said, dropping her hood with her free hand. Her hair, white and wavy, was cropped short around her face. Her eyes, too, were familiar—there was no mistaking it. She was noticeably younger, yes, but her face held the same sharp, mischievous features he was so used to seeing on Acaeus. He was almost shocked that she'd given up her identity so easily—Ashana had made it seem as if she was incredibly secretive.

"That means..." Ronan's eyes widened. "Calysia?"

"Who are you?" Calysia demanded. Her free hand lit up with her magic, the same blue as Acaeus'. "Why are you here?"

Ronan held up his hands in surrender as Ashana cried out, fearful. "I'm a friend of your brother. Of—of Acaeus. I know him, I'm looking for him."

Calysia squared her shoulders, dropping her hand from Ronan's chin to his collar. "What's his middle name?"

"Saravel."

"What is his Sphere of Magic?"

"Elemental."

"His mother's name?"

"Talia."

Calysia's breath hissed out from between her teeth. She let him go and stepped back, but her magic didn't fade just yet. "And your name?"

"Ronan Aldrea," he said evenly. "Your brother is part of my Circle, and he left to find you."

Calysia's lips parted in surprise. She looked at him for a long moment, then extinguished her magic. "Why would he..."

"He thought you could help me."

"With what?"

"Nothing important at the moment. Listen to me." Ronan was pleading, but he threw his pride to the wind and continued speaking. "He thinks you're in one of the Ravenpledged camps. I trust you remember why he left in the first place?"

"They thought he'd killed our Speaker." As he watched, Calysia paled. "Our new speaker, Marikei, he'll—" Calysia shuddered. "You said you were looking for him. Do you know where he is now?"

Ronan grimaced. "I've been unconscious for at least two days," he said drearily. "I don't think I know much of anything, unfortunately."

Ashana was staring at them. "Do you know each other?"

"No," Calysia said gently, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. "But he knows my brother. You remember me telling you about him?"

"The one that was framed?"

"Yes. Him. He's in trouble, and I think this man—Ronan—can help me find him before something bad happens." Calysia looked up and met his eyes, looking for confirmation. He inclined his head.

"I'll do anything in my power to help," he said. "But first I need you to tell me something."

"Anything."

"The Speaker that was killed, the murder Acaeus was framed for—do you know who committed it? It could give us an idea of who we'll have to look out for if he's made it to the camp."

Calysia's eyes darkened. "I'd bet my right hand that it was Marikei himself," she said with a sneer. "The man's a cold, lying bastard with no right to call himself our Speaker."

Ronan opened his mouth, then closed it. He lowered himself painstakingly into a chair at the table and Calysia and Ashana quickly followed suit.

"I take it he's not well-liked."

"On the contrary," Calysia muttered. "People revere him. Do you know much about the Ravenpledged?"

"Only what I heard from Acaeus," Ronan confessed. "But you two were only here for—what, a year before he had to leave you? That's not much time to gather information, and he always refused to say more than he had to."

Calysia nodded. "That sounds like him." She spared a glance at Ashana, who was listening with wide eyes. "The Speaker is someone that can hear the voice of Ashtei, our patron. They serve as our holy leader. Since Marikei took the position, he has claimed that she has fallen silent, and taken control of the Ravenpledged operations by promising he is doing it all to bring Ashtei back. He's ravenous for power, you can see it in his eyes."

"Sounds like a man with a good reason to murder someone."

"He knew I was sensitive to the voices of the Three," Calysia said darkly. "If I hadn't been twelve at the time, he may have set me up in my brother's place—but no one would believe a child could commit such a brutal crime, and he knew that all he had to do was cast doubt on me through Acaeus to get me out of the running for the Speaker's apprentice. I don't have proof, but I know he's the one that did it. He killed the Speaker, took his place, and banished my brother."

Ronan bit his tongue before he spoke again.

"Calysia, why...why did your brother take you two there in the first place?"

"It was the only place he knew that our parents wouldn't follow. He hated his duties as a noble, hated Rhydel—he wanted to leave, and I refused to stay behind without him. He took me with him to Kadena and we stayed until he was banished."

"And after that?"

"After that, I stayed with the Ravenpledged, because I had gotten a few of the more merciful members to take me in. My brother and I knew I'd be safe. The Ravenpledged are not a band of savages like the other islands make us out to be, Ronan. But under Marikei's hand, we do fall closer to your idea of what we are. He is cruel and power-hungry, willing to convert villages by force in order to 'please the heavens.' But I promise you, there are good people among us. Whatever we see back at the camp, do not judge us too harshly. It is all done under Marikei's bidding, and people trust that he is doing it all in their best interest. Those that know it is wrong do not speak out, as they know what happens to those who do. He has trapped us in an infernal cycle, and if it continues it will run us into the ground." Calysia sighed deeply. "But that is not your problem." She stood. "We need to leave as soon as possible. It is not a long ride to the camp, if we hurry we can—"

"Wait," Ronan said swiftly. He nodded to the bed where Zia slept. "I can't leave without her. We have to stay until she wakes up."

Calysia turned an incredulous look on him. "You were the one who spoke of urgency, Aldrea. You know what we risk in waiting! We have to leave. We don't have the luxury of being able to wait for your friend to recover."

Ashana, who had been silent for so long that Ronan had nearly forgotten her presence, raised her head from where it had been respectfully bowed.

"If I may," her voice was shrill and embarrassed. "I apologize for interrupting, but His Highness' companion is safe to move. You could bring her with you in the cart you brought. If your brother is in such immediate danger, I think it would solve your problem!"

Calysia froze, and she and Ronan stared at Ashana with wide eyes.

"You're sure she'll be safe?" Ronan said slowly.

"Positive. She has no fever, and I think it is highly likely that she will wake up within the next day or so. But if you can't wait that long—"

"That will work," Calysia said sharply. "Ashana, you'll lead him to the caravan, won't you?" She moved hurriedly toward the door, only pausing to give the girl a smile. She looked up at Ronan. "I'll be waiting for you by the edge of town. Gather your things, I'll explain the plan as we go." She slipped out the door without another word. He and Ashana were left staring at the place she had been standing, and then Ashana was on her feet, pulling Ronan up and rushing around the room, throwing various items into a worn leather pouch sewn haphazardly onto a belt.

"You heard her, Your Grace. Get your things together, you need to get going!" He stood still, and Ashana stopped when he didn't move, meeting his eyes. "Something wrong?"

"I just—" the brevity of it all, the rush, was making his head spin. "I wanted to thank you again. If there is anything you ever need, Ashana—"

"Nonsense." She thrust the belt into his hands. "That has extra bandages, herbs in case your friend starts to develop a fever, and some other things in case of an emergency." She held up her hands. "No need to thank me, truly. It is my job. I am happy to help in any way I can."

Ronan smiled as he fastened the belt around his waist. "Alright. If you truly won't accept any other form of gratitude, I suppose words will have to do."

He turned to go collect his sparse belongings from the room he had woken up in, but Ashana grabbed his sleeve. "Wait—if you answer a question, I will consider us even." She looked sheepish, but Ronan nodded solemnly.

"I will answer to the best of my ability."

Ashana steeled herself, wrinkling her nose as she thought through her words. "How are you..." her cheeks flushed. "You know. Alive. With the prophecy, and all."

He paused, trying to determine how best to answer. He wasn't entirely sure himself. Finally, he said, "my Circle protected me, and came to my rescue. A...friend of mine, a god, was able to heal my wounds. I think I did die for a moment," he said softly, "and I don't know how I made it out. If you ask me, it was pure luck." He didn't mention the hallucinations, the voice that whispered that it would spare him. He couldn't be sure it had even been real.

Ashana studied his face, eyes wide and curious. "Does that mean you are going to be Adacia's king?"

Ronan's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't thought much about it since they'd left for Kadena, but his responsibilities to his people still stood. He sighed.

"To be honest, I don't know. Many people want me dead, the Seven included. It depends on whether or not my luck holds out, and on those around me. On my own free will, to some extent." He walked into his room and began to pick up his remaining things. "I don't know if I want to be king," he called back over his shoulder, "but it's my responsibility regardless. I refuse to leave my people alone at the mercy of Rhydel, and I know that if I'm on the throne, we'll have a chance of stopping this war before it spreads any farther."

"That would be good," Ashana murmured. "The fighting, it is frightening. I have never seen a war, but I know I am not yet good enough as a healer to help all of the soldiers. I have to get better just in case Rhydel comes." The girl's voice was shaking, and Ronan let go of the remains of his previous belt, turning in time to see Ashana bite her lip and run her sleeve over her eyes. A pang went through his chest.

"I'll do everything I can to make sure that this war never comes to you. I promise."

Ashana nodded as if she didn't quite believe him, but she whispered a few words of thanks before turning away. Ronan ran a hand through his hair, doing his best to focus on the task at hand.

He grabbed _Amon'Llyra_ from the nightstand and slid it back through his belt, uncomfortable at the thought of its presence but knowing that Shivaroth would want it back, if only to try to unravel why it had been with Ronan in the first place. Nothing else there was intact enough to serve him on his journey, so he exited the side room and scanned the rest of the house. A pair of boots roughly his size sat by the door beside a neatly folded black cloak. The table had been cleared of their cards and their meal, Ashana had propped the front door open and gone to go get something, and Zia was—

Ronan nearly choked on his own breath.

Zia was propped up shakily on one elbow, staring at him with bleary, tired shock.

"Ronan?" Her voice was hoarse. His eyes filled with tears and Zia's confusion only seemed to grow when he rushed to her bedside and helped her sit, propping her up with shaking hands and making sure she was stable before letting go.

"You—" Ronan clamped a hand over his mouth, stifling a stream of words that would have brought forth a wave of tears he could not afford but could do little to hold back. Zia leaned forward, unsure of the situation but frightened herself, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

When Ashana came back, expecting to find Ronan ready to depart and Zia asleep beneath the covers, it was to the prince sobbing against his friend's shoulder, remembering how close he'd come to losing her, how cold her corpse had been beneath his hands.


	20. XX. False Prophet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ronan & zia find themselves hopelessly entangled in the politics of the ravenpledged, and ronan's visions return with a vengeance.

They'd been on the road for an hour, their grateful words to Ashana at the backs of both of their minds, before either of them found it in them to speak. They were in the back of a wooden cart laden with food and supplies—one drawn by the horse Calysia rode.

Explanations had to be given. That had happened first. He had recounted for Zia the events of their night at sea, their injuries, and the few days they had been unconscious. He told her their location, and then the plan to find Acaeus. Zia had taken it all in stride, leaning on Ronan as he led her out to the cart where Calysia waited impatiently.

She had fallen silent soon after.

It seemed to Ronan that the weight of everything had been suspended until mere moments ago—the luxury of processing the events of the past week, and the month as a whole, had not yet been awarded to them. Everything that had come to pass since he had left Solthorne seemed detached from him somehow, surreal; despite seeing the bodies and the blood and the wounds, his actions and the actions of others still eluded his grasp on reality. It seemed an impossible feat to wrap his mind around the fact that not only had he survived his birthday, but a god had been killed, and shortly after his closest friend had died in his arms only to be revived in some miraculous show of mercy from the otherwise cruel hand of Fate.

Shivaroth's arrival, Acaeus' departure, Wynne's reunion with Liliana, his visions, Zia's odd demeanor throughout their journey—they all paled in comparison to the glaring and violent events at the forefront of his mind. Aevar's death, along with Zia's—however brief—were the ones that were hardest to comprehend. They had happened, yes, but it was evident in his and Zia's silence that the shock that accompanied it all was the dominating force. Reality had yet to sink in, and despite being aware of that, Ronan could not find a way to speed the process up. It was infuriating. The lack of control made him want to dig his nails into the skin of his forearm until it bled.

And now they continued on again, as if nothing had happened. He couldn't tell which was worse. Was it better to speak of it, though their minds had not yet fully deciphered their situation? Or should they sit in silence, waiting for the cart they sat in to take them to Acaeus in what would inevitably become another event to add to their ever-mounting array of misfortune?

He cursed under his breath. Zia looked over at him, her eyes still slightly bleary.

"Ronan?" She pulled the blanket Ashana had insisted she take tighter around her shoulders. "Is something wrong?"

He fought with himself for a moment, the inherently open part of his nature clashing with the need to push everything down until he would no longer have to worry about feeling it. After a minute or so he sighed.

"No," he said, upset with himself the moment the word was out of his mouth. "We can talk about it later." The follow-up was weak. He ignored any reaction it may have brought forth and turned his head so he was looking back at the village as it faded into the distance. The buildings, low to the ground and made of dark wood, were blanketed by a thick layer of darkness and fog, and the sea, glassy and gray, was visible in the far distance under the light of the moon. Kadena was not mountainous as Adacia was—it had wooded hills and a solitary low mountain range, but nothing higher. It was a welcome change of scenery. As much as Ronan loved his homeland, it was no easy feat to navigate through the narrow passes that bridged the range of mountains that cut from north to south.

Zia must have been staring at him while he stubbornly kept his gaze trained on the road behind them, as she cleared her throat pointedly after a minute or so. He glanced back at her reluctantly, his increasingly wild hair partially covering his eyes.

"We have time," Zia said, offering a deeper conversation with an apprehensive nod. "If there's some kind of problem, we should probably mend it as well as we can before we get to the camp."

"I suppose." Ronan's hand came up and toyed with the high collar of the white shirt Ashana had provided. "Though there's not much we can do about this thing in particular. It's more of an emotional issue."

"And that is..?"

Ronan's next exhale was shaky. "You were dead when I got you out of that water, Zia."

"That's it?" Zia, though visibly shaken, gave an uncomfortable laugh. "Well, I'm here now, aren't I? All thanks to you."

"It's also thanks to me that it happened in the first place."

Zia snorted. "Bullshit. You can't help the fact that this world seems dead set on killing us. You didn't push me off the boat. In fact, I seem to recall that you are the only reason I'm breathing at all."

"Mm." Ronan bit the inside of his cheek harshly. "It was luck. Luck and a healer."

"Luck, a healer, and you."

The cart ran over a bump in the road, and Ronan's shoulder was jostled against the side. Zia took the opportunity to grab his wrist and pull him to her side of the cart so he was sitting beside her, their arms pressed together and their legs stretched out before them.

"I just can't justify any of this anymore," Ronan murmured. "I'm putting you all in danger, and for what? This isn't even your fight, Zia. You have your own kingdom to run, and I'm pulling you in like it's some kind of—"

"Maybe I don't want to be there," Zia said sharply. "Did you consider that? Do I seem like someone that would do something I didn't want to do, Ronan? Something I didn't believe in? Your Circle is my family. My mother is dead, my advisors are nothing even remotely close to friends, and I can't walk into a single room in Esadon where the people in it don't know exactly who I am and what I've been doing. This—this is what I've always wanted to do."

"What, constantly fear for your life?"

"No." Zia nodded to the land that stretched out before them, the village fading in the distance. "This. I want to fight for something. Something I believe in. I want to run to the edges of the world and then past them. I would rather die a valiant death far from home than in a peaceful ring of healers and successors." She looked at him, then, and her face was a mask of complete and utter seriousness. "I don't want to be a queen, Aldrea, and I never did. But we must play the roles set for us in life, in the long run, so when you get the chance to run, by the gods you take it. This, right here and now, this is my chance. I'm going to hold onto it as long as I can."

Ronan stared at her.

"You're unhappy in Esadon?"

"That's not the point. I'm telling you that you're not forcing me into anything, that I want to be here." She took a breath. "And...I wanted to thank you for saving my life. You could have just given up, yet you risked your own life for mine."

"I'd risk everything for you in a heartbeat if you asked," Ronan said immediately. "You know that."

"And I for you," Zia murmured.

She exhaled slowly, exhaustion coloring her gaze. She lowered her head and rested it on his shoulder, her hair tickling his neck. He threaded his fingers through hers.

"Aldrea." His surname came this time from Calysia, who sat behind them at the front of the cart. "We're getting close. Do you have any sort of plan?"

Zia gave him a tired smile, and he sighed deeply. Their moments of serenity were getting fewer and far between.

"Half of one," Ronan called back. "If you let us off out of sight from the camp, we can sneak in and see what we can do."

"You're not going to kill anyone, are you?"

"I will avoid it unless it comes down to self-defense," he said solemnly. "Trust me. I am not the type to lust for blood."

There was tension in the air again, and Calysia seemed to weigh the silence before she spoke. "I'd appreciate that. There are good people here, people that don't deserve to die, even if it means my brother will."

"So if it comes down to it—"

"If it comes down to it, I want you to avoid conflict even if it's them or him. I love Acaeus and I always will, but these people are my family, and I can't let you hurt them."

"He's your family too," Zia said. "What about him?"

"He's family that I only know through memories and letters. It's been years since I've seen him." Her words took on a bitter tone. "He has his duties to you, to his family, and I have my duties to mine. I'm sure you can understand that."

"Yes," Ronan assured her. "Of course."

Zia shot him a look. He nodded, confirming her silent question.

They could not follow Calysia's wishes. He would abide by his word and avoid conflict without question, but when Acaeus came into the mix, that's where they differed. When it came down to it, he and Zia would fight tooth and nail for Acaeus' freedom. Such was the bond of the Circle; it could not be whole lacking even a single member. When something happened to one, the rest were bound by heart and vow to save them. Ronan was more than willing to uphold that duty.

"I'll let you off here," Calysia said, pulling back on the reins of the horse and letting the cart slow to a stop. "The camp is about thirty feet ahead to the left. You can hide in the tree line, you'll be able to see and hear just fine. If I can get him out on my own I will, but if that isn't possible, I'll give you a signal. Past that, you're on your own."

"What signal should we look for?" Ronan, wincing as the healing skin on his legs pulled when he dropped from the edge of the cart to the muddy road, looked up in time to see Calysia call her magic to her fingertips. She twitched a finger and a flare of electricity shot up from her palm, bright enough to be easily noticeable from a distance.

"This." She extinguished her magic when the display was finished. "Keep me in your line of sight if you can. I'll do what I can to get my brother out without any conflict."

Ronan helped Zia down from the cart and nodded at Calysia. The night provided a good blanket of cover, but he knew that the moment they breached the tree line they'd be plunged into another kind of darkness.

"Thank you for this," Ronan said sincerely. "I pray this goes well for all of us."

"As do I," Calysia said. "If I don't see you two again, it has been a pleasure." She gave Ronan a deep nod before she urged the horse forward. The cart pulled away, its wheels sticking for a moment in the mud before lurching forward. Ronan and Zia were left alone once again, standing in the middle of the road, their bodies shielded from the wind by the cloaks on their shoulders.

"Ronan."

He looked over when Zia said his name.

"What do we do if this goes south? We can't take on a cult on our own."

His face was grim when he responded. "Well," he said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I assume we'd take Acaeus and run like Death itself was the one chasing us."

Zia chuckled uneasily. "Yes, that sounds about right."

They looked at the small stretch of road ahead of them. They were near their destination, finally, after coming up against every possible obstacle. His chest ached at the thought of what they would find in the camp that awaited them.

They could be too late. There was always that possibility. Too late, and Acaeus would already be dead. Too late, and their journey would be for nothing. Too late, and the pain they endured would be amplified until it overwhelmed them. Zia cleared her throat, snapping him out of it.

"Shall we?" She asked it as casually as one would ask for a dance. Ronan managed a smile.

"Yes, I suppose this isn't something we can put off any longer than we already have." He found his hand drifting preemptively toward _Amon'Llyra's_ hilt. He forced it down, fully aware of the importance of serenity when taking on something this dangerous. If he went in jumpy and tense, he would come out dead.

They made their way down the road a bit, sticking close to the edge of the forest and cutting in just before the turn the caravan had taken. There was just enough moonlight that seeped in through the branches to light their way, and a bright glow twenty feet ahead of them guided them forward toward the camp.

The closer they got to the clearing, the quieter they became. Ronan placed his feet carefully, settled his breathing, and kept his senses as alert as he could. He moved like he'd seen his father do years prior when he went on hunting trips—a leisure activity Ronan had never understood, but had committed to memory. It was an intricate business.

He and Zia made it to the edge of the clearing without an issue and crouched down in the underbrush.

The camp was smaller than Ronan had expected, but more intricately constructed than what he'd assume was the custom of a nomadic cult. Their tents, made of black cloth and embroidered with the golden raven emblem of Ashtei, were set up in a half-circle around a massive bonfire not unlike the one he had grown so used to seeing in the Rhydellan war camp. Another fire was being built off to the side, a mountain of logs surrounding a strange post in the middle, but Ronan found his eyes drawn instead to the tent in the center with two gold spires set into the ground on either side of its entrance. It must have been late but there were muffled voices audible from within, one slightly agitated, raised enough that Ronan could tell it was Calysia.

Upon further examination, he found that her horse and cart had been abandoned by the entrance to the clearing, and others had begun to unload the supplies. His brow furrowed.

"There," Zia said suddenly, whispering her words with apprehension. She pointed, and Ronan followed her finger, his eyes coming to rest on the familiar blue blade of Stormbreaker, discarded near the bonfire. Ronan's heart dropped.

Acaeus was never without that blade.

A man emerged from the central tent, followed by Calysia, who had her voice raised and frantic.

"Please," she was saying. "You can't truly believe that, Marikei."

So that was Marikei. He was younger than Ronan had expected, perhaps only a decade older than he was, with brown hair bound up with a strip of leather and adorned with a raven's feather. He didn't look like the murdering type, but Ronan supposed that he himself, wiry and rather plain, didn't look quite the part either. Even so, he had plenty of blood on his hands.

"It is our law, Calysia. You know this as well as I."

"But he is not one of us anymore, he is not bound by our laws." Calysia grabbed Marikei's arm, stopping him in his tracks, and Ronan saw his eyes flash with anger in the firelight. "Please."

Marikei carefully freed his arm from Calysia's grip. "Someone has to answer for this crime."

"It was years ago!"

"Perhaps it was, but he killed a priest of Ashtei. That is not something She nor I can forgive."

Calysia's eyes swept the edges of the clearing, pausing on him and Zia for a moment before she raised her voice slightly so they could hear more clearly.

"He does not have to die for this."

"Enough." Marikei shook his head. "I know you care for your brother, but he is a criminal, someone to be punished for his misdeeds. He will burn as he is meant to. It is his fate."

Ronan watched attentively as Marikei broke away from Calysia and made his way toward one of the other numerous tents as if he was in no hurry whatsoever. Calysia, from where she stood, turned her back to their position and rushed into a different tent, one that was more ragged than the others. Ronan exchanged a glance with Zia.

So Acaeus was to stand judgment.

A chill ran through him. Ashtei was one of the Three; her role in the pantheon was that of Justice, while Shiato—who had been killed by the Seven before the Night War—was Truth and Vatani was Protection. It did not surprise him that the Ravenpledged would be so focused on this idea of achieving justice, but under Marikei's leadership, Ronan couldn't be sure how that would manifest.

He had said Acaeus would burn. No matter what happened, Ronan was not about to let that come to pass. He may not have been prepared to face it in any capacity, but he was willing to take it on with the strength of one that was. He had to, after all. It was Acaeus' life on the line.

The camp was mostly silent. The fire raged in the center but there were few voices due to the time of night. Ronan found himself stifling yawns more often than not, but when Calysia emerged from the tent with a look of harsh determination, Ronan pushed himself up onto his knees. He nudged Zia's shoulder as Calysia began to walk out the way she'd come in, never gesturing for them to follow but igniting her magic in her palm and walking with such purpose that Ronan was sure that they were meant to. He stood, helping Zia up beside him, before they carefully followed the path of trodden underbrush they'd created back out to the road.

Calysia was waiting for them with a stony gaze.

"They won't let me see him," she said the moment they emerged from the forest. "He's being guarded by five of our best. There's no way you'll be able to sneak in and out unnoticed. He and Zia exchanged a glance, and Calysia added, "and if you plan to fight them, I will raise the alarm myself. I am not letting you kill to get my brother back. His life is not worth more than anyone else's. They do not deserve to die just for following the orders of a false prophet."

Ronan lowered his head and cursed under his breath. "Then what do you propose?" He said, not bothering to hide his exhaustion. "What else is there to do?"

"They plan to read his last rites during sunrise and execute him shortly after."

"Execute?" Zia growled, eyes narrowed. "Remind me why we're not going in with our blades drawn, Ronan?"

"Just hear her out," he muttered.

"As I was saying." Calysia pointed up to the sky. "We have a few hours before the sun rises. I propose that we wait until then—there may be an opening that we can take advantage of."

"You want us to wait?" Zia looked uneasy. Ronan could tell she was stopping herself from saying something else, something that would have surely made their position more complicated. She finally settled on, "what if that opening never comes? Are you willing to let your brother die?"

"Yes," Calysia said softly. "If it is truly the just course, it will be carried out. If it is not, I am sure there will be an intervention."

"The gods don't always work how you want them to," Ronan said with a hint of distaste. "Lady Lesterium—"

"Just Calysia, please."

"Calysia," he corrected himself, "I truly do appreciate your faith in your gods, but I can't say I possess that same confidence. We may have to intervene, that's simply the truth of the matter."

"Your Grace, might I ask you to remember that the Three are not your Seven? They may be quiet but they are diligent, and Ashtei has always been attentive to our order. If she disapproves, she will make herself known." Calysia's eyes seemed to hold an infinite well of wisdom. Ronan had a hard time believing she was still a few years younger than himself.

"Perhaps. You'll forgive me if I find that hard to believe."

"Your gods have shown you nothing but silence and cruelty for decades. Doubt is only natural."

"I can see why she was up for the position of their leader," Zia muttered under her breath. "I've never heard a kid talk like a priest before. I don't think I like it."

"Listen," Calysia said, pushing a wave of white hair away from her eyes. "We don't need to agree. We don't even need to like each other. I doubt we'll see each other again after this, so anything that happens here will not be something that determines anything between us. The point is that we have a common goal, and we must achieve it before Acaeus winds up dead."

Zia crossed her arms. "You're free to pretend we don't need to agree, but if I say I'm going to go in and take out the entirety of the camp—"

"Which would be impossible," Calysia interjected quietly.

"—you wouldn't like that much. My point," Zia said, drawing the words out with an obvious touch of annoyance, "is that we need to agree on our plan if nothing else. If we waltz in there with half of us planning to do one thing and half of us another, we'll all end up dead or dismembered."

"And what a joy that would be," Ronan said, half-distracted as he scanned the forest around them. His mind was scrambling for a plan, but Calysia spoke before he could even begin to formulate one.

"I truly believe that we need to wait," Calysia said. "There will be some sort of opening if the gods will it."

"And if there is no opening? Ronan asked again. "What do you propose we do then?"

"Then we accept that it was not meant to be."

"No," Zia said sharply, "then we try something else. If that doesn't work, then we keep trying. Unless Acaeus is dead on the ground in front of me, I'm not giving up."

Calysia sighed. "It is useless to argue. We will never agree on this."

"No, we won't." Zia scuffed her foot against the ground, sketching something in the mud with the toe of her boot. "I suppose we'll just have to see what it comes to."

"I suppose," Calysia conceded. "If we manage to free Acaeus, you will have to take him and run. Do you understand? You must not waste time."

"And what about you?" Ronan indicated Calysia with a subtle nod. "Your Marikei doesn't seem like the type to overlook traitors in his midst."

"No," Calysia said. "No, in fact, I believe he looks every day for any reason to be rid of me. I cannot involve myself in this for that reason, which is why this rescue will be up to you two alone."

"What?"

"You will need to make yourselves seen for at least a brief second to get suspicion off of me. Do we have an agreement?"

Ronan nodded while Zia narrowed her eyes. Calysia gave them both a brisk bow.

"Best of luck." She smiled half-heartedly. "I'm sorry I can't offer you more assistance."

"Don't be," Ronan said. "We understand."

"I appreciate this," Calysia insisted. "Truly. Acaeus—I know it may not look it, but I love him. I would never wish this upon him." She glanced back at the camp and cursed as someone called her name.

"Be careful," she said hastily.

"You too," Zia said as Calysia turned and ran back down the path to the clearing. The moment she was out of sight, Zia shook her head.

"This will be bad if we do things her way," she muttered. "I'm sure of it."

"I agree," Ronan said softly. "But we don't have the manpower to take on an entire cult, and I don't want to hurt anyone that doesn't have to be hurt. If the worst happens, though—"

"We throw that caution out the window," Zia finished. "Gods, this is shit."

They eyed the forest that would serve as their shield for the night, both from sight and from the elements themselves. There was something uncanny about Kadena—the very ground beneath him felt as if it was watching him. He shuddered as his eye began to water, reaching up a hand to rub at it with a wince. When his vision refused to clear he sighed and gave up, instead focusing on the task ahead of them.

"We should sleep in shifts," Zia said.

"Agreed."

They stood side by side, eyeing their path. Neither moved forward. The next morning would be harrowing, he was absolutely sure of it. He could tell that Zia knew it too. There was no ignoring the feeling that hung over them.

It was the same feeling he had felt in Solthorne, in Aevar's war camp. He had felt it before the siege on Illirium and before their boat had struck the reef. His hallucinations, determined to keep their grip on him, sprang into being, the forest steadily replacing itself with flames, the sounds of shouts, of metal on metal.

This was inevitable, he realized. Whatever would happen tomorrow was inevitable. The path that the events would take had already been written by the hand of someone crueler than he could imagine, the hand of Fate itself, stern and guiding.

The visions proved it. He didn't know how, but they did.

Zia slid her hand into his, and led him toward the raging flames that had devoured his sight. They were reaching for something, for someone. His right eye continued to water.

He blinked, and flames vanished.


	21. XXI. To Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a feather falls from dark hair, and a head from a neck.

The sun rose and brought with it the smell of smoke. As the light began to seep through the trees Ronan was shaken awake by Zia, who was speaking frantically long before his mind had managed to comprehend the reality of the world around him.

"Wha..?" he pushed himself up on one elbow. "What're you..?"

"Ronan." Zia gripped his shoulders. "They're reading his last rites."

Ronan's eyes shot open, the chill in the air along with the muffled words carrying on the steady wind jolting him awake with an alertness he had not been prepared for.

"Already?"

Zia nodded. "Quiet. We have to bide our time."

Marikei was the one speaking. Contrary to the desertion they had seen the night before, the camp was now strewn with onlookers—there couldn't have been less than thirty, all clad in black cloaks emblazoned with the sigil of Ashtei. Ronan, still slightly bleary, did his best to catch Marikei's words over the rising sound of the wind in the trees.

"—of flame we are wrought, and to flame we will return," he was saying. "The purest form of justice is found in fire. We were pulled from it in the beginning, from a single flame, by the gentle hands of the Three, and we stand now on two legs, nearly able to pull things from the flame ourselves, to create what even the gods could not."

Ronan shot Zia a look. "By the Void, what is he talking about?"

"I don't know."

"This man, with his violent acts and unjust ways, is hindering our advancement to that stage. He seeks to set us back, to—"

"Oh, shut up."

Ronan's eyes widened. He knew that voice, knew that edge of cockiness that had been missing from it for so long.

"No one likes these sermons, you know. If you're going to kill me, at least do it quickly so that I may be spared the agony of listening to you speak."

Marikei shifted, allowing Ronan to see what he'd been looking for so frantically. Acaeus was tied up on a wooden stake, his arms and feet bound, his chin up defiantly. He was a few feet above the unlit bonfire he and Zia had seen the night before and suddenly it all lined up.

They were going to burn him. They had been speaking literally.

"You are not in a position to speak, prisoner." Marikei sneered. "Or have you forgotten our laws so soon?"

"The handbook was boring," Acaeus muttered with a dry laugh. Ronan's hand came down to rest on the hilt of _Amon'Llyra_."Your entire organization bored me, in fact."

"Is that why you thought it was acceptable to murder our former Speaker?"

"No, but I suppose only you would know about that, wouldn't you? Care to tell us your own justifications, High Speaker?"

Marikei's nostrils flared. Someone near him in the crowd leaned forward and murmured something into his ear. He nodded slowly and resumed his speech even while Acaeus started to hum an old sailor's song behind him.

"There's not going to be an opening," Zia said suddenly. She nodded past the crowd toward two hooded figures that carried a lit torch between them. "They're going to do it now." Ronan's blood ran cold. Acaeus, still feigning nonchalance, stared directly at the torchbearers with a steady calm. The two holding the flame had their unoccupied hands open, ready to cast the spell that would cause the pyre to ignite with unnatural fury.

"What do we do?" He whispered. "How are we supposed to—how do we stop this?"

Zia's face, grim and determined, was fixed on Marikei.

"We're going to have to make a scene," she said. "There's no way to get through this unless one of us distracts them."

"That's too dangerous. These don't seem like the type to give up their murderous urges just because someone happened to wander out of the woods."

"Then what do you propose?"

"I..." Ronan balked. The torch bearers were growing closer, and Marikei's speech seemed to be coming to an end. The shock of it all, of waking up to an execution, was harrowing. He looked at Zia with noticeable terror.

"There's no other way, Ronan, we have to move _now_ or Acaeus will die. Do you hear me? If I throw myself out of these bushes pretending to be injured or something, will you sneak around the crowd and get Acaeus out of here?"

"I'm not leaving you to deal with this alone!"

Their conversation, while quiet, was heated. Feeling eyes on him, he looked up to see someone looking at the treeline with a quizzical stare, searching for the source of whatever noise they had heard, no doubt—Ronan grabbed Zia's forearm and pulled her farther back into the shadows behind a tree—he sighed in relief as the man turned back around.

"Ronan," Zia said, a harsh edge to her voice. "I cannot stress how much we don't have time for this. It's now or never."

Ronan heard Marikei's voice trail off. He saw Calysia at the edge of the group, her expression pained, her toe tapping anxiously against the ground. The torch was being held up before Acaeus' pyre.

"Now," Marikei drawled, turning his back to the crowd and facing Acaeus. "Are you going to tell us the names of those that sent you?"

Acaeus' eyes narrowed, losing all hints of his previous flippant spite. "If I am truly meant to die by your hand, I will not do so as a traitor." He squared his jaw. "I will not bow to a tyrant and a blasphemer. Not now, not ever."

Marikei's eyes were bright with fury. "You're lower than a dog," he hissed, spitting on the ground between them. "I pray that you get what you deserve in death." Marikei spun on his heel and stalked back to stand with the rest of the Ravenpledged. He nodded to the torch bearers, and Ronan exhaled sharply.

"Do it, Zia." He drew _Amon'Llyra_. His heart was pounding. "Be careful."

Zia nodded solemnly. There was no hint of her usual cocky grin. "You too. Things go wrong, we meet on the road back to the village, by that old temple." Zia took the bandage from the wound on her head, revealing a long gash that had been neatly stitched up.

"Cut me," she whispered. "Quickly."

Ronan winced but did as she asked, raising _Amon'Llyra_ and moving it in a swift arc over her right eyebrow. Blood began to seep from the wound immediately, dripping down her face. Zia got to her feet.

"Go, Ronan." She turned and gave him a small smile before she exhaled steadily and stumbled out of the woods and into the clearing. He saw her collapse to her knees with a cry, raising gasps from the gathered crowd. He muttered a prayer under his breath before he stood himself and moved silently around the pyre, fully hidden in the underbrush. He stopped when he stood directly behind Acaeus.

The scene had become one of chaos. The torch bearers stood stationary by the pyre, waiting for their orders, while Marikei was studying Zia with a critical eye. Onlookers had stooped to help her, and one woman had pressed a scarf against the shallow cut he'd made on her forehead, doing her best to stop the bleeding.

"Please," Zia was saying. "Please, I only—I only ask for a medic. That's all. I'm lost and I don't know—how to get back to my sister, please—"

Marikei turned to Acaeus, eyes full of scrutiny. "Is this one of yours, boy?"

"No," Acaeus said breezily. "Never seen her in my life."

Ronan moved forward slowly while Marikei walked over to Zia, lifting her face up and studying her eyes.

"You look fine to me."

Zia's lower lip trembled. She was a better actor than Ronan had imagined. He moved steadily closer to the pyre, wary of the amount of open space between him and Acaeus. All someone had to do was turn around and he'd be seen in a heartbeat.

"Please, I don't know what this place is, I just need help." Zia reached up and clutched at the front of Marikei's cloak with bloodied fingers. "I'm begging you. You must have goodness in your heart, my lord, find mercy for me." Acaeus was watching it all with poorly masked shock. Calysia pushed her way through the crowd.

"Let me through!" She emerged from the sea of people and dropped to her knees in front of Zia, studying her wounds with an expert eye. "I'm a healer," she explained. "Or, well, an apprentice to one." She showed no signs of familiarity.

Zia gave her a shaky smile. "Bless you," she whispered. "Thank the Three."

Ronan reached the pyre with a sigh of relief. He moved to climb up onto the wood stacked around the stake Acaeus was bound to, finally letting his guard drop, when a few simple words made him freeze in his tracks.

"And what have we here?" An incredulous laugh was drawn from Marikei's lips as his eyes met Ronan's. "I knew this—" he gestured to Zia, "—was wrong. What are you? Children looking for their lost pet? Your friend is already doomed. He has received his judgment."

Acaeus, unable to see Ronan from his position, clenched his fists. Ronan, in a moment of pure reckless courage, lunged forward with _Amon'Llyra_ at the ready, eyes fixed on the ropes that secured Acaeus to his pyre, hands outstretched, reaching—

At the same time, Marikei yelled "now!"

The executioners reached the pyre before he did, their massive iron torch lowering just enough to graze the earth, igniting something deep within the stack of wood. The spell that followed was swift; Ronan cried out in horror, stumbling back as the fire jumped up before him, stealing Acaeus from his view.

The flames engulfed the wood in seconds.

Someone screamed. Zia, he recognized faintly. The flames were all he could see, the flames and _Amon'Llyra's_ blade, held out, still ready to do his bidding. Ronan's right eye flared up in pain and he raised a hand to clutch at it, tears streaming down his cheeks.

He had seen this.

He had _seen this._

The flames. The glint of steel. The screams. The sound of metal on metal, distantly, that he now recognized as a blacksmith's hammer coming down upon its subject.

There was no sound from Acaeus. No struggling even as the flames rose around him. It had been immediate, the flames had leapt before he could, there had been no time. He should have done something sooner. He could have done anything, _anything_ , and it would have been better than standing there as he was, crying like a child, his lungs failing to inflate and his heart threatening to break from his chest. Zia, from her position on the ground, stood up and bolted toward him, grabbing Ronan's arm and pulling him toward the tree line, yelling at him, telling him to run through her tears.

The gathered group of Ravenpledged had drawn their weapons upon Marikei's command. He knew there was danger, but he knew if he could just cut Acaeus' bonds, free him from the fire, he could run with them, get back to Adacia in one piece. His eye burned as viciously as the flames before him. The voices in his head seemed to go silent at his abject terror.

"He's dead, Ronan! He's gone! We need to leave, do you hear me?" Zia's voice was as vicious as the flames before them. He strained against Zia's grip on his arm, tears spilling over down his cheeks. He opened his mouth, intending to—to do something, to shout something that would stop this, make it false, untrue—Acaeus couldn't be dead, because he was—he was—

And then _she_ spoke.

Her voice was a low, tri-toned rumble, as if the thunder itself had taken form and decided to sing. All eyes—his, Zia's, Marikei's, those of the crowd, all fearful and wary, turned toward the pyre from which she had spoken.

"You claim to have a hand in Justice, Marikei of Fejan."

The voice came from—no, that couldn't be right. Ronan and Zia froze, eyes fixed on the two points of light within the inferno that burned brighter than the fire, a blinding white in the shape of narrowed eyes.

That was not Acaeus' voice.

"You claim to be the hand of my will." Ronan heard the sound of ropes snapping. He and Zia stumbled back, shoulders knocking together, clumsy in their fear. Marikei went pale, and Calysia dropped to her knees beside him as if she had been struck, pressing her forehead to the dirt and raising her hands with her forefingers and palms pressed together, the position of one meaning to pray.

Her words, muffled against the ground, sent a shock through him.

" _Taha'nallai, vihiran makan Tirai'ah._ " Even through the Kadenan dialect, he deciphered the meaning quickly: _we greet you, honored lady of Justice._

The response came from within the heart of the flame, from all around them. Someone was moving, but that couldn't be Acaeus, he didn't speak like that, didn't have the strength to snap coils of rope like they were nothing. Ronan's heart stuttered. The voice in the flame continued.

"You attempt to burn an innocent man in my name, and the rest of you allow him to be called your Speaker? When has this fool led you in the name of the Just? When has he relayed my word? I have been silent, trusting that you were wise enough to see the truth, but I suppose I was a fool myself for thinking as much."

"My lady," Marikei said breathlessly. "I—you must—"

"I must?" The voice was boiling with rage. Ronan and Zia edged unconsciously back toward the forest. "Do you truly intend to tell a goddess what she must do? You have strayed from the path of the just, you crusade for power and wealth, and you claim to speak for me, the eldest of the gods, with your own mortal tongue. You would not be in my presence without reason; your pleas will not change my purpose."

Marikei whimpered. The fire was extinguished as if someone had simply blown out a candle—one moment it was there, the next it had vanished, leaving a pile of scorched wood and a figure standing tall in the center of it, free of the bonds that had once held them, hair blackened and burnt at the tips while their skin was untouched by the flame.

"Acaeus," Ronan whispered.

It was indeed his knight, unmistakably so. His hair had fallen down around his face, his eyes were a blinding white, and he stood at an odd, inhuman angle, but it was him. The voice that spoke with his lips made Ronan shudder.

"What do you say for yourself, Marikei."

"The boy deserved it." Marikei's voice was shaking. "He—he killed—"

"And now you lie." The voice was disappointed, bland. Not-Acaeus walked from the burnt ground and retrieved Stormbreaker from where it had been discarded, running a finger over the blade to test its bite. Seemingly finding it satisfactory, he turned and walked over to Marikei and Calysia with the uncanny gait of something that had not taken the form of a human for much too long.

The rest of the Ravenpledged had followed Calysia's lead and bowed down. Only Ronan, Zia, and Marikei remained standing, all frozen in a strange mix of awe and terror, mesmerized by the being before them.

A series of rapid visions made him falter.

_Feathers falling from brown hair. Stormbreaker, bloodied. A head, its face hidden, coming to rest at Acaeus' feet, severed at the neck._

The visions disappeared as abruptly as they had come. He swayed, slumped against Zia, his eyes threatening to roll back in his head. Zia cursed under her breath and lowered him to the ground, keeping him from collapsing completely by reaching across herself and pressing a steady hand to his chest.

"Not now," Zia hissed. "Stay with me, Ro, eyes open." They were on their knees by the forest. Ronan kept his eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, fixed on Acaeus' back as he continued advancing toward Marikei's position. The clearing was as silent as the grave. No one dared to speak.

"This place," the voice said. Acaeus' hair began to float around his shoulders as Ronan had seen Shivaroth's do time and time again in Serenvah. "It deserves to be wiped from the map." There were cries of terror among the crowd. Ronan, struck by a sudden wave of serenity, simply watched.

"Would you like to know why I am not going to do that? I will tell you." Acaeus stopped in front of Marikei and bent, placing his palm upon Calysia's shoulder and guiding her up so she stood beside him. "This girl. This girl is your savior. She alone has stayed true to your code, an outsider that has been persecuted time and time again by those thinking they are more deserving of her position. She has always spoken with truth. She will by my Speaker by the time this day is through."

" _Tana vit eta'va na alakh, Ashtei'Niha._ " Calysia murmured the words with a newfound courage. _I will serve until my death, Merciful Ashtei._

Side by side, Ronan was struck by their similarities. Their hair was the same color, their face held the same features, their jaws were of the same determined cut. Had Ashtei's eyes not been staring out of Acaeus' face, any bystander would have taken the scene to be some twisted family reunion.

Then Acaeus' hands tightened around Stormbreaker's hilt. Calysia took two quick steps back while Marikei remained frozen in fear.

"While I have mercifully allowed your flock to continue under the hand of deserving High Speaker, Marikei, that leaves you. You are the true culprit of this unfortunate situation, wouldn't you agree? Power is never a reason to kill. The only justification for killing, mortal, is if you do it in the name of true virtue—and even then, you walk a dangerous line." Acaeus, guided by Ashtei's steady hand, shifted Stormbreaker in his grip. Marikei fell to his knees. "Your hunger for power stems not from justice, but from cowardice. You are unworthy to walk this earth."

"Wait!" Marikei's voice broke. The rest of the Ravenpledged were silent—even Calysia, who had protested the thought of violence so fervently before, had adopted a cold mask of understanding. Ronan and Zia had frozen where they'd fallen. Only Marikei still spoke, the frantic rush of his movements causing his hair to come undone and the raven feathers he'd bound in it to fall unceremoniously to the ground.

"Please, have mercy. I—I only wanted what was best for us, for your people. It is not my fault that these outsiders got in the way. You—you didn't protest before, you must have seen that what I'm doing is good for you—have mercy, Lady Ashtei."

Acaeus raised his chin and cocked his head, the blackened tips of his white hair falling haphazardly across his face as he looked down on Marikei's quivering form. Ashtei chuckled and the sound came not from Acaeus' lips but from the very air around him. He spoke with the goddess' voice, calm and amused.

"It is not the duty of Justice to be merciful."

He raised Stormbreaker and brought it down in one smooth motion. The blue blade was bloodied swiftly as Marikei's head was cleaved from his shoulders, falling to the muddied ground and rolling forward until it stopped at Acaeus' feet. The mutilated body of the former Speaker twitched, then slumped over with finality.

The goddess that had seized control of his body gave a dissatisfied huff. Acaeus turned, his—Ashtei's—eyes locking with Ronan's.

Feathers. Blood. Beheading. Ronan's fingertips had turned blue from the shock. His vision swam, but he held Ashtei's gaze.

" _Mahalakh_ ," Ashtei said. This was not Hjelohk, this was something different, something older. He could not decipher it. "You should not be here. You are out of the reach of your own gods." Calysia watched in awe as Acaeus walked over to Ronan and knelt down in front of him, taking his chin in three fingers and studying his face.

"Have you started to see now, child?" Ashtei moved Acaeus' thumbs up so they brushed the skin beneath Ronan's eyes. He barely dared to breathe. He recognized the calloused touch he'd felt so often, but the eyes, the voice—

"Forgive me," Ronan whispered. "I don't understand."

"You will. Tell that pet god of yours, Leta'Anvaroth—"

"His name is Shivaroth," Ronan interjected, remembering who he was speaking to only after he had corrected her. He froze, but the goddess did not seem bothered.

"Is that so?" Ashtei raised an eyebrow. "Very well." Acaeus' thumbs pressed minutely harder against his skin, his dull nails leaving crescent-shaped indents when he pulled back a moment later. "Tell Shivaroth this: _ta shrihana Mahalakh vohaka nesha'na alta_."

Ronan committed the words to memory, his skin going cold. "I will."

"Thank you." Acaeus stood, surveyed the pyre that he had been bound to only ten minutes prior, and then walked back across the clearing to where Calysia had crouched down beside Marikei's body. The bloodied stump of his neck rested in a pool of muddy, reddened water.

"You do not need to weep for him," Ashtei's voice said.

Calysia met the eyes of the goddess that looked out from her brother's face with a slight smile. "I do not plan to," she said. "You have blessed us by speaking the truth we so desperately needed to face."

Acaeus smiled. Ashtei's voice grew warm. "I made the right choice, picking you to be Speaker. You see things as they are." Ashtei was silent for a moment. "This body I have taken, is it your brother's?"

"It is, _Ashtei'Niha_." She hesitated. "You saved him from the flames. I truly thank you for that."

"He did not deserve to die," Ashtei said simply. "His life is not meant to end for some time. Had the Seven not interfered with the Adacian prince's plans, he and the Esadonian queen would have been the ones to save him, but as it was I was forced to intervene. It is not customary, but when necessary, when I feel my people have strayed too far from their path, I will appear to them. I took matters into my own hands, as it was the just thing to do."

Calysia opened her mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it. Acaeus' body was frozen in place.

"If there is something on your mind, speak it. You are my voice now, Calysia Lesterium. There will be no secrets between us past this day."

"I only—" Calysia sighed. "Will Acaeus—will his body be alright? After you leave it?"

"He will be exhausted. Disoriented. He may not remember the events that transpired. But his mind is strong; he has withstood the mortal urge to collapse beneath my presence, and his being has supported mine. He will live, and his injuries are minor. The prince and the queen are free to take the boy back to their island. They will have my protection across the sea, but once they reach the Adacian shores, there will be nothing I can do for them beyond watching their progress."

"Thank you," Ronan said, awed at the goddess' nonchalant vow of protection. "May I ask?" He ventured hesitantly, brow furrowed. "Why are you helping us?"

Ashtei's eyes studied his. "You are to play a role in what is coming, mortal. A large one, no matter what you decide. Your own gods are attempting to thwart that fact—your wreck on this island? That was no accident, boy. I think we can both agree that it would be best if you got back to your own shores in one piece. I am interested in the way this all plays out. That is all." She paused, then said grimly, "You will have to leave immediately after my own departure. There is no more time for you to waste."

Ronan froze. Ashtei had confirmed what he had dreaded—that there was a reason he had not died when he should have, that the voice he had heard on the brink of death was not false, not a hallucination, and that the prophecy it spoke of was—

He shook his head, desperate to clear it of his thoughts. There was no need to jump to conclusions. Shivaroth would have answers at Terr'Havel.

He nodded weakly to Ashtei, who turned back to the crowd of assembled Ravenpledged. Most had risen up onto their knees, staring at their goddess in awe and reverence, pointedly avoiding sparing a glance at Marikei's corpse in fear of being reprimanded by the one who had killed him.

"You will burn his body," Ashtei called, loud enough that many flinched away. "You will give him the fate he would have given another. You are still my people, I still love you as I do all of the just, but you must remember who you are. Calysia, as of this day, will be your High Speaker. With her guidance and mine, we will restore this great order to what it once was. You will be the Voices of the Just once more, and you will have my voice added to your own."

The gathered crowd bowed low. Calysia murmured her thanks.

"The three outsiders will be released. You will provide them with enough coin and rations to get them back to Adacia." Ashtei looked out over her followers and smiled slightly, but when she spoke next, her gaze was fixed on Ronan. "May you have the courage to do what is right," she said, voice ringing clear and strong, before the blinding light died from Acaeus' eyes and he collapsed to the ground in a heap. The fire that had died around the stake flared back up, the Ravenpledged began to mill about in shock, and Calysia knelt down next to her brother.

Just like that, it was all over.

Ronan and Zia remained seated beside one another, eyes wide and hands shaking violently, their hearts pounding.

They had been in the presence of the eldest of the remaining gods. The right hand of the One, the first god, the being that had curled up and fallen asleep, giving its body to become the world they walked upon. The waters that spread over the body of the One, destined to become the seas, were the tears of Ashtei herself, lamenting the sacrifice of her own creator. They had stood before her. Before the one who had seen the beginning of it all.

Not only that, but Acaeus was alive, and members of the Ravenpledged were rushing to accommodate their goddess' wishes. Saddlebags were being filled with food, supplies, and clothes, and the promise of their immediate departure was enough to knock any remaining sense from his mind. Zia got to her feet shakily, her fingers digging into Ronan's elbow as she hauled him up beside her and dragged him, still nearly frozen with shock, over to Acaeus and Calysia.

Zia's voice was hoarse when she spoke. "Acaeus," she said, wincing as the words grated at her throat. "Is he—"

Calysia looked up. "He's perfectly fine," she said, her eyes wide. "His heart is beating, his temperature feels normal, and his lungs sound healthy." She ran her fingers through her brother's hair, some of the burnt tips falling away in her hands.

Ronan sank to his knees across from her, Acaeus' body between them. He reached out a tentative hand, turning Acaeus' head so he could see his face. It was serene, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, as if he'd simply fallen asleep. Even his clothes, from his tunic to his boots, had survived with only a few scorch marks. He got to his feet abruptly, turning and walking past Zia to the tree line, putting a hand against the bark of an old fir. He forced himself to breathe, shutting his eyes and putting his forehead against the trunk.

"Oh, gods." He whispered, wiping his eyes prematurely before any tears could fall. "Shit."

Zia didn't follow him; he heard her speaking softly to Calysia. He held on tighter to the bark, focusing on the feeling of the wood against his skin.

It had been much too close. If Ashtei was right and the Seven had indeed been the ones behind their shipwreck, they were set to be in real danger the moment they were back on Adacian soil. Even if they stayed in Kadena, Ronan could feel that they would find a way to get to him. Whatever role he was to play in the coming weeks, months, years—it would find a way to catch up to him.

If Wynne had been with him, she would have known what to do. But she was across the sea with the family that Ronan had asked her to leave for his sake once already; this was something he would have to bear alone for the time being.

Then there was the matter of what to do about Acaeus. He felt an unexpected flare of anger at the thought. He gritted his teeth, the mess of thoughts becoming too intense to carry.

He turned from the tree and rubbed his hands roughly over his face, trudging back to where Zia and Calysia were hauling Acaeus' limp body up between them, one of his arms over each of their sets of shoulders. Zia was saying something, acknowledging Ronan's departure and return with nothing but a brief nod, which he was grateful for.

"—and I'll have him send you a letter when we get back."

"Wait," Ronan said. "He'd never speak to us again if he got all the way here and didn't get a chance to get his answer." Calysia and Zia both looked at him with confusion. He clarified reluctantly.

"Acaeus came because he thought you could help me."

"I remember. Help you with what?"

The conversation Ronan had so desperately avoided the previous day bubbled to the surface. He grimaced. "I'm seeing things. Hearing things."

"Like what?" Calysia froze. "Visions? Are you seeing things that have happened or that have yet to happen?"

"I saw Acaeus' pyre," he said grimly. Zia's eyes snapped to his face. Ronan ignored her alarm. "And Marikei's beheading. One was weeks before it happened, the other minutes." He didn't try to keep the exhaustion from his voice. "In his letter, Acaeus said you'd dealt with something similar."

Calysia bit her lip. "Yes. As a child, I often saw things before they happened, but that was due to the fact that I have the ability to hear the voices of the divine."

"What do you mean?" Ronan asked while Calysia passed Acaeus off to Zia, who picked him up with a heavy exhale and carried him over to the horses the Ravenpledged had prepared for them.

Calysia glanced around them, seeming to relax knowing they were alone. "The reason Marikei was afraid I would become Speaker when I came of age was because there are times that I can speak to the Three in my dreams. Beyond that, premonitions arrive as you described—hallucinations, losing time. According to the Three, I am the only one under their hand with this ability. Though if you possess it too..." she cocked her head. "Your royal family has always had patron gods, yes?"

"We have. Shivaroth is mine. I am his Herald."

"Is it not that, then? Do the Seven not usually communicate through their Heralds?"

"Not for many generations. They've been silent to us, to the churches. Shivaroth was the first god I had heard of that made himself known to mortals in recent years, though that may have been because he was young and didn't know better. He was around my age when we met. It was fifteen or so years after his rebirth."

A thoughtful look came over Calysia's face. She hesitated for a moment. "When did this start?"

"On my birthday," he said.

"Did anything eventful take place?"

"I—" Aevar's face, serene and amused even as he died, flashed through Ronan's mind. "Aevar and I fought," he said weakly. "I won."

Calysia stared, but didn't press. She'd caught the implication. "Now, I would double-check with this god of yours, but if this started then, it could very well be connected to your Seven. Not an ability you were born with, as I was, but something inherited."

Ronan ran a hand awkwardly over his forearm, eyes darting to the ground before he looked back up at Calysia. "And these visions, how often do you get them?"

"Perhaps once a year," she said.

"Oh." Ronan cleared his throat. "What if I told you they were happening every few days?"

He could pinpoint the moment Calysia's interest turned to alarm. Her eyes widened minutely, and she cursed.

"By the Three," she murmured. "I'm sorry. I would not know why that's happening. Perhaps your sight is simply more powerful than mine." She paused. "Your Grace, if this is not too intrusive...does it hurt you?"

"Yes," Ronan murmured. "Very much. My eyes especially are—"

"It shouldn't hurt," Calysia said hurriedly. "It has never hurt me. Talk to Shivaroth the moment you return to him—this is crucial."

Ronan bit his lip and nodded slowly, letting the things she had told him sink in. He was grateful Zia hadn't been there to hear it—whatever this was, Ronan was getting more and more certain that it wasn't benign. If anyone else became privy to that knowledge, it would set forth a stream of events that Ronan wasn't sure he could handle.

He would tell Shivaroth before anyone else.

"Do me a favor," he said softly. "If your brother writes to you and asks about this, don't tell him what you just told me."

"You want me to lie to him?"

"I want you to keep this hidden, just for a bit, so we can avoid another incident like this."

A sorrowful look flashed across Calysia's face. "You don't trust him?"

"I always have," Ronan reassured. "But right now, he has to earn that trust back. He nearly got all three of us killed because he was being reckless—" he saw Calysia open her mouth to protest and preempted it, "—and though his recklessness came from a place of kindness, it does not change the fact that in getting here, we came a hair's breadth from losing our lives. I cannot know for certain that he won't do it again, so it's important that this stays between us for now. Please, Calysia. You know as well as I that we can't go through something like this a second time."

As conflicted as the new High Speaker seemed, she only took a moment to agree. "Alright," she murmured. "I pray that you know what you're doing."

Ronan ran a hand through his hair, tilting his face back as the wind picked up and sighing deeply. "Trust me, Calysia," he breathed. "As do I."


	22. XXII. The Dead, Still Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> with their mission's purpose fulfilled, ronan and zia return to terr'havel, bearing more scars to show for it.

It took a full week to get back to Adacian shores. Acaeus woke up on the third day, as they were crossing the sea, begged them to turn around and go back to Kadena, and only gave up when he saw Ronan and Zia, both dead on their feet and entirely somber.

They caught him up on the events that had transpired when they landed. The story was kept brief, told mostly by Zia, as Ronan had lost himself to thought and anger somewhere during their passage on the boat they'd borrowed from a young Kadenan sailor that had hailed from Ashana's village. Any sense of righteousness Acaeus had once possessed bled out of him, and though he apologized sincerely on the road back to Terr'Havel, neither Ronan nor Zia were of the mind to accept it. It was received with two nods and a murmured, "we know," from Zia. Ronan said nothing, and Acaeus eventually stopped trying.

After that, they moved through the world like ghosts. They rose at first light, rode under the fog and the gently falling snow, and retired at the first sign of darkness. They did not speak, they ate only when they had to, and they slept under the stars. The three horses the Ravenpledged had given them were louder than they were, whinnying back and forth as if to mask the silence.

They had all known each other for years, and yet they brushed past each other like strangers. They had long since given up on speech—it had been made clear from Ronan and Zia's prickling hostility that the events they had endured over their stint in Kadena were not up for discussion, and Acaeus' excuses were not going to be welcome for quite some time.

His intentions may have been pure, but they had caused more harm than they had good. It—the lying, the avoidance, the outright disregard for the ways of the Circle—it was too much to forgive in a week, in a month. In fact, by the time the midlands became visible on their tenth day of traveling, the only words that had been spoken in days were out of courtesy or shared briefly between Ronan and Zia as they discussed the safest route to take through the storms in the mountains or how to bypass camps of Rhydellan soldiers. The two of them were not at odds, per se, but cautious; their complete and utter dependence on one another, even for so brief a period, had left their memories all too close to the surface. Their shared pain and terror in Kadena was brought up whenever their eyes met, whenever they happened to brush shoulders. It was easy to block out when they were apart, but even something so simple as Zia clearing her throat was enough to send his mind hurtling back to the reef, to the moment when Zia had choked and lurched forward, going too still too quickly after ridding a portion of the water from her lungs.

He was sure she had the same thoughts.

On the dawn of their twelfth day of travel, Zia said something that nearly made him cry in relief:

"There. Terr'Havel." She pointed, and he and Acaeus followed her line of sight to the manor, shrouded in fog a mile or so up the road.

"Oh, thank the Three," Acaeus breathed. They all stopped for a moment, taking the sight in and realizing that they had, in fact, survived—that they had made it back in one piece, that the scabs that had started to heal into the pink beginnings of scars on Ronan's skin and Acaeus' singed hair and Zia's bandaged head were things that they could one day overlook as a brief moment in their shared past. The moment they were through the doors of Terr'Havel, they would be free to heal. To put it all behind them. To, at the very least, mask the trauma with something stronger.

Ronan spurred his horse forward first, taking the lead, urging his mount faster than it had gone in days. He could tell the mare was grateful, that it had wanted to run, as they flew down the road, not slowing down even when Ronan eased up on his control. It felt like it had been years since he'd seen a place that felt like home—Adacia itself was home, he supposed, but since he'd left Solthorne there had been nowhere that felt safe, nowhere that called out like an old friend waiting to greet him. Terr'Havel may not have been terribly familiar, but since he'd left for Kadena it was all he had longed for. Walls around them, a roof above them, his Circle, unharmed and all in one place. He felt a flare of rage directed toward Acaeus for tearing them from that reality to begin with, and lowered his head against the wind as he drove his mare a bit harder. He heard Zia call out to him, perhaps asking him to slow down, but he kept a steady pace, putting a good twenty feet between them. He only slowed on the way to the gate, waiting for Zia and Acaeus to catch up before he dismounted.

"You could have waited," Zia muttered. He glanced up at her, and she sighed. "I suppose I can't truly blame you, can I."

"Sorry," he said, sincerity bleeding into his voice unintentionally as he unlatched the gate and held it open so Acaeus and Zia could enter before him. They rode up to the stone circle before the doors, a sort of reception area for guests. They dismounted as Ronan led his own mount through the gate and shut it quietly behind him. It was about noon, but he didn't know how Terr'Havel's inhabitants would react to their reappearance. As Acaeus and Zia tied their mounts up beside a trough of water, Ronan hung back, looking back down the road they'd travelled to get there. The mountains were in the distance, shrouded in dark clouds, and the sea beyond them.

Seventeen days they had been gone. He shut his eyes and heaved a deep sigh, trying to force his heart to slow. At the same time, the door was flung open behind them, and three sets of feet rushed from it. Ronan didn't turn right away, not to the sounds of relief or concern. He didn't turn until he heard a voice, all too familiar but lacking its usual serenity, say his name.

"Ronan," Shivaroth said, the word nearly a cry on his tongue. "Is he—"

Ronan stepped forward from the gate, past the intricately cut topiary that had shielded him from the door. He locked eyes with Shivaroth, his cautiously hopeful while the god's held something near devastation. They both stood still for a moment before Shivaroth nearly ran to cross the distance between them, gathering Ronan's muddied, bony figure into his arms and pressing his forehead to the mortal's shoulder, though he had to lean down to do so. The embrace was clumsy, uncharacteristic when held beside Shivaroth's usual grace.

"Ronan. Oh, mercy." Shivaroth's voice broke, and he held on to Ronan like he was afraid the prince was going to dissolve into mist. "You are alive. You are all alive."

Shivaroth stepped back and held him at arm's length. For a moment, Ronan thought he was going to say something more, but his ears drooped and his eyes filled with tears before he could get the words out and Ronan pulled him back in, closer, his hand sliding up to rest on the back of Shivaroth's neck, tangling in his dark curls.

"I'm okay, Shiva," he said, his own voice shaking with the threat of tears. Shivaroth's grip on Ronan's cloak tightened and he let out a quiet, shuddering sob.

"I thought you—I thought you had died."

He had never seen the god this upset, not in any of the years they had known each other. Ronan met Wynne's eyes over his shoulder, seeing that she was in a similar state. He looked away after giving her an awkward nod, returning his attention to the matter at hand.

"The Three kept me from you, after you reached Kadena, I swear I did not mean to—to—"

"Please," Ronan said desperately. "None of this was your fault. Look at me." Shivaroth hesitated, and Ronan said it again, more gently. "Look at me."

This time he obeyed, pulling back and looking at Ronan with no hint of his usual calm. Ronan tentatively reached up and wiped the tears from his cheeks, keeping his hands on Shivaroth's face for a moment as he spoke.

"We can do this later, alright? You can stay by me if it helps, but they..." he nodded to Wynne and Liliana, who were fussing over Zia and Acaeus—or perhaps they were scolding. It was hard to tell with how quickly Wynne's mood seemed to be switching from furious to relieved. "They need to know that I'm—"

"I understand," Shivaroth said, ducking out of Ronan's hold. "Later, then." He offered Ronan a weak smile, lowering his head and following as Ronan made his way reluctantly toward the larger gathering. He led his mare with one hand, securing it beside Zia and Acaeus' before he turned and found himself swept up in Wynne's embrace.

"Never do that to me again," she said, her voice husky with the threat of tears of her own. Ronan didn't hesitate to return the gesture, leaning into it and finally letting himself relax a bit.

"Trust me," he mumbled into her shirt. "I don't plan to."

"Seventeen—" Wynne stepped away and turned to Liliana. "Seventeen days! Can you believe this?"

Liliana smiled, though Ronan could tell from the dark circles beneath her eyes that she had been as harrowed by this experience as the rest of them. "You can berate them later, love."

"They deserve to be berated now," Wynne muttered, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes. "You're lucky I'm happier to see you than I am angry, though I'm sure—" she fixed her gaze on Acaeus, "—that my happiness won't last forever. We'll talk about what happened tomorrow."

Ronan looked up in surprise. "It's only noon, we could talk about it now."

Wynne shook her head. "Not so soon after you've returned. I don't need an account of your journey to see that you three are in desperate need of a break."

Liliana had led Acaeus away and was speaking softly to him in the doorway. Ronan watched as he ducked his head and murmured something, which was followed by Liliana letting a breath out through her teeth and pulling him to her chest. Acaeus' shoulders were shaking. Ronan looked away.

"Lili and I will take care of your things," Wynne said softly, running a hand through Ronan's hair and studying his new array of wounds. "Shivaroth, you'll make sure they get safely to their rooms, won't you?"

"Of course," the god murmured.

"We should all meet down in the dining hall tonight. If not to talk about anything serious that comes up between then and now, then at least to be in the same room together." Wynne sighed. "It's been too long."

Wynne pressed a kiss to Ronan's temple, then moved away and gently took Zia's shoulder. He heard her murmur a quiet, "are you alright?" Upon Zia's nod Wynne gave her a weak smile and moved away toward the horses, hiding her own unease behind a false screen of calm. Liliana and Acaeus had disappeared into Terr'Havel, leaving Shivaroth to accompany Zia and Ronan as they made their way through the doors that had seemed like something out of legend when they had been across the sea. Seeing them now and knowing that they were safe was almost more jarring than their initial return to Adacia—they had made it back in one piece, as Ashtei had promised.

"Shiva," he said softly as they made their way up the stairs. The god's arm was brushing his. Zia walked in front of them, her feet dragging even more than Ronan's own.

"Hm?"

"We need to talk." He hung back as Zia ducked into her room, waving to her as she gave him and Shivaroth a tired smile and silently shut the door behind her. He didn't blame her for making a quick exit—there was an undeniable tension in the air between he and Shivaroth, and it needed to be resolved.

"About what, dear one?" Shivaroth followed him as he walked to the end of the hall and chose a room far away from both Zia's and Acaeus', turning the handle and nodding for Shivaroth to enter before he walked in himself and shut the door. When he met Shivaroth's eyes, the genuine concern in them was almost startling. He caved beneath it.

"About so much," he said miserably, fingers fumbling as he tried to remove his cloak. "About the visions." His cloak fell to the ground and he gestured to _Amon'Llyra_ , which had become visible on his hip. "About this. About what Calysia said, about Ashtei, about—'

"Ashtei?" Shivaroth visibly balked. "She—what do you mean, about Ashtei?"

"Ah." Ronan sank down into a chair at the vanity while Shivaroth remained standing, tense and ramrod straight. "She borrowed Acaeus' body, reprimanded the Ravenpledged. Among other things."

"And you're alive?" Shivaroth ran a hand through his hair. Whatever had transpired over the past seventeen days had rattled him considerably—the expressiveness he was exhibiting was alarming. Ronan held up a hand.

"Shiva, answer something honestly for me, will you?"

The god froze. "I suppose."

"Something's wrong, isn't it?" Ronan stood, crossing the short distance between them so he could make sure nothing was being hidden. "What is it? You know you can tell me."

He saw the way Ronan was looking at him and sighed, realizing that it would be more energy to resist than to give in. "I thought I would never see you again," he muttered. "I do not often...there have not been many occasions in my life where I have been close to a mortal, where I have truly understood the fact that mortality is not a trifling matter."

"But you've died yourself," Ronan said. "Hasn't mortality always been apparent, at least somewhat?"

"I was tired then, Ronan. I had seen everything, walked every road, sang every song. I did not need to cling to life, I did not need to worry, because I felt I had fulfilled my purpose. My point is that the thought of losing someone dear to you is different than the thought of losing yourself. I have had many years to contemplate my own mortality. I am a god—I can only die due to extraordinary circumstances, but I can still die. This does not frighten me." He lowered his eyes.

"The idea of losing you was something different. When Aevar struck you down I was there, I was able to bring you back. But the thought of you, dead, somewhere across the sea..." he trailed off. "I cannot articulate it well in your tongue."

" _Then speak in Hjelohk_ ," Ronan said, slipping into the unfamiliar language of the gods. " _I will listen_."

Shivaroth hesitated, then whispered, " _sa ei mirihan ti nahov via en attai_." Ronan stared. _It is harder to lose one you love._

The word he had used, _attai_ , was different from the word Ronan recognized for love _._ He cocked his head.

"I thought 'love' was _tannai_."

"It is," Shivaroth said. "So is _attai._ Ignore it. The point remains."

He thought for a moment, then dropped it. "You won't lose me," Ronan said firmly.

"You cannot possibly know that," Shivaroth protested. "That is in the hands of Fate."

"As everything is. Just pretend to believe me, alright? This is a mortal custom."

"Lying?"

"Comforting those that you care about," Ronan said gently. "Sometimes that involves lying about the circumstances of your own mortality, yes."

Shivaroth considered this, then let his shoulders drop. "Fine," he muttered. "I will pretend to believe that you have control over the uncontrollable."

"Thank you. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Shivaroth heaved a deep sigh, sinking down onto the bed and resting his chin in his hands. He looked exhausted, but Ronan could read that now was not the time to press that fact.

"You were telling me about Ashtei, I believe," Shivaroth prompted.

"We should talk about what Calysia told me first. Less jarring that way, I think. In rough terms, she said she has premonitions like mine."

"Your visions—they fulfilled themselves?" Shivaroth sat forward. "You saw them play out?"

"Twice. I saw—" he sighed. "Please don't ask about this. I saw Acaeus's pyre and the beheading of the leader of the Ravenpledged."

Shivaroth opened his mouth, then closed it. "...alright," he said. "Continue."

"She said she has them too, but that she's had hers since birth, and they were never accompanied by pain. She told me that was important to tell you."

"It is," Shivaroth said slowly. "And what did Ashtei say?"

"She told me to tell you..." Ronan frowned. "I'm not going to get the words right."

"That is perfectly alright. Do your best."

"Mm." He took a deep breath. " _Ta sihala Mahalakh vohala nesa'na alta_."

Shivaroth made a choked sound. _"Ta shrihana Mahalakh vohaka nesha'na alta_?"

"That was it," Ronan said sheepishly. "Does that mean anything to you? I couldn't understand it."

"That is because it is in the First Language. Even I am not fluent in that." Shivaroth tucked his hands beneath his thighs, but Ronan saw that they were shaking. He fixed the god with a pointed look.

"You know. Tell me, Shivaroth."

There was silence, overpowering, before the god broke it with a reluctant note in his voice.

"'The fated Prophet,'" Shivaroth translated grimly, "'awakens by your hand.'"

"Fated?" Ronan turned to find that Shivaroth had put his face into his hands.

" _Ahn'Vahey_ ," the god breathed. "I thought that was a myth."

"What? Shiva, what are you—"

"What else did she tell you?" Shivaroth's words were muffled by his palms. Ronan cautiously sat down in a chair across from him.

"She told me that I am going to play a role in what's coming. That's why she offered us protection so we could get back to Adacia."

"Why would you need protection from a goddess?"

"She said the Seven had been the cause of our shipwreck," Ronan said, careless with his words. Shivaroth's head shot up from his hands and he fixed Ronan with a look of pure fury that, had it been directed at him, would have made him cower in fear.

"What did they do?" His voice was low and dangerous, that of a predator.

Ronan winced. "It's fine. We made it."

"You should not need protection from the Three to keep you safe from your own gods."

"Yes, well, I think it's been made abundantly clear that the Seven are not particularly inclined to like me, wouldn't you agree? You're the outlier here."

Shivaroth narrowed his eyes. "They have no right."

"Hey." Ronan's voice was sharp. "Be angry about it when we talk about everything that happened tomorrow, alright? This isn't important right now,"

"Of course," Shivaroth said through gritted teeth, shutting his eyes and exhaling slowly, forcing a strained half-smile. "I apologize. Your arrival was...jarring. I am not used to this level of emotional intensity."

"No need to apologize."

There was a knock at the door and both Ronan and Shivaroth froze, alarmed at the prospect of another overhearing their exchange. Ronan's heart lurched—he had forgotten what it was like to be around so many people, to speak so much at once. His voice was getting slightly hoarse from disuse.

Shivaroth moved from the bed and opened the door, accepting whatever was passed through to him with a few gracious words. When he turned around he nudged the door closed with his heel and carried a tray of items over to him, setting it on the vanity. The tray contained a collection atop it that made him sigh in relief: a bowl of steaming water, a cloth, a razor, and a few other various items that he ignored for the time being.

"Liliana said that there is a bath waiting for you if you want it," Shivaroth said, returning to the bed and perching awkwardly on the edge.

"I'll go after this. We should finish talking."

Shivaroth bit his lip, going silent as Ronan turned toward the mirror and began rubbing the mud and blood from his freckled face with the cloth, which was quickly stained.

"Ronan, I do not know how much else there is to speak of. I—this was perhaps the one outcome I was not expecting, I have no answers for you as it is."

"Then what do you propose?" He winced as the cloth tore off one of the scabs on his face, sending a small trail of blood down his cheek. "Dammit," he muttered, pressing the cloth to the small injury and wincing as it began to sting.

Shivaroth met his eyes in the mirror, his expression miraculously managing to become more serious than it had been.

"I have an idea," he said slowly, "but it requires me to leave Terr'Havel for a few days."

Ronan set down the towel and turned around. "No. Absolutely not. We can't risk that right now."

"Then come with me."

"I can't, Shivaroth. I've only been back here for, what, all of an hour? I can't leave again so soon, I'll only slow you down."

"There is no other way to find the information we need, I will promise you this now. No matter what volumes the library here may hold on its shelves, it will not have what we are looking for."

Ronan stilled. "And what are we looking for?"

"Answers. Any books containing divine prophecy, which will not be found in mortal hands."

He lowered his head into his hands, groaning. "We don't have time for some sort of quest right now, we're barely holding it together as it is, I don't think we—"

"No," Shivaroth said hurriedly. "I know where they can be found. We would not have to search beyond a bit of reading. It is a days' journey from here if we hurry—east, through the mountains and toward the sea. You do not have to come with me, but this is the only way I will be able to tell you what this means. I have an idea, but an idea is not something to present as fact." Shivaroth gave him a tired smile. "Besides," he murmured. "I think this place...I think you would like it."

Ronan sighed, the current of air disturbing a layer of dust that had gathered on the arm of the chair he occupied. He took the bait willingly.

"What is it, then?"

"The _Vokha'Siata_."

Ronan frowned, translating the words to their literal meaning. "The Void Library?"

"You would know it as the Archive of the Veil."

He froze, the breath rushing out of his lungs. "I thought that was a myth," he whispered, getting to his feet and beginning to pace. He reprimanded himself halfheartedly for even considering the offer. He grinned in spite of himself. The feeling of genuine excitement was almost startling. "It's real? It's a place you can just—you can just go to?"

"If you happen to befriend a god," Shivaroth said with a hint of amusement, "then yes. Only the divine have the ability to call it into existence, but theoretically any mortal can enter. Admittedly," he added, "I do not think anyone has ever tested that theory."

Ronan stopped walking, sighing deeply and considering his situation. He had the chance to enter the library of the gods themselves—larger than the castle library he'd spent so much time in as a child by some infinite metric, more beautiful than he could imagine—the place was said to hold every book every written, every thought ever had. He cursed.

"Are you alright?" Shivaroth said softly. Ronan considered his answer.

"You just gave me the offer of a lifetime," he muttered, "yet thinking responsibly, as a leader, I should probably turn you down."

"You do not have to decide now," Shivaroth said, standing and picking Ronan's cloak up off the floor, brushing it off before hanging it up on a hook on the back of the door. "I will have to go regardless if we want any chance at unraveling this. I have heard of Calysia's form of prophecy, discovered at birth and mastered from there, but I have never encountered one who gained the ability later in life. It manifests early, it is painless, and most visions come in dreams. This ability you have, Ronan—the visions that tear you away from reality even when you are awake and aware of your surroundings, the ability to speak fluently in the language of the gods—this is something new." He frowned. "Is there anything specific that triggers them?"

"Not that I've noticed." He reached up a hand to rub his eye but Shivaroth caught his wrist before he could reach it, taking Ronan's chin in his other hand and tilting his face up and to the side. Ronan yelped in protest, letting out a startled, "hey!"

Shivaroth ignored him, examining his right eye with a level of scrutiny that made him want to wither away where he stood.

"Does this eye hurt?" The god asked, holding Ronan's arm in place as if he'd forgotten that he held it.

"A little, I guess," Ronan said, pulling his arm away and pushing Shivaroth's hand from his face with a bit of annoyance. "Don't do things like that."

"Apologies." Shivaroth kept his eyes on him; he didn't sound terribly sorry. "Pay attention to that. Tell me if it starts to get worse." Ronan turned back to the mirror on the vanity, uttering a quiet word of assent and waiting until the god finished mulling over whatever it was that had made him get so quiet.

"I will have to leave for the archive soon," Shivaroth said finally. "Within the next two days."

"Shivaroth, you can't endanger yourself like this." Ronan's protest was halfhearted. He had enough experience with Shivaroth to know when he'd made up his mind, but he'd resent himself if he didn't at least try to keep the god from pursuing his foolish—however brief—escapade. He rubbed the back of his neck with a chilled hand. "I can't lose you. Not after everything." The words escaped him unbidden. Shivaroth's lips twitched up into a bittersweet smile.

"You will not," he said with enough warmth and confidence that Ronan almost believed him. He chuckled, then, looking a bit sheepish. "Am I participating in this custom of yours correctly? The one where I am supposed to lie?"

"Yes," Ronan whispered, a tremor working its way into his voice. "You are."

"Truly, though, dear one." Shivaroth grew serious. "I will not put myself in any unnecessary danger, and I do not intend to be foolish. You will not lose me if I travel to the archive."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow, alright? When we discuss everything that happened in Kadena. This—I shouldn't be the one to make this decision. We saw what happened when one person made a decision for all of us, and I do not intend to repeat that." Ronan sat back down, bending over and taking off his boots with a tense, drawn out exhale. The scar tissue on his stomach pulled uncomfortably at his position but he was focused on his legs and the dried blood that stained the bandages wrapped around them. Shivaroth made a small noise of disapproval, kneeling down before him and wincing in sympathy.

"You did not tell me you were injured," he murmured.

"They're minor." At least, they were now. They'd mostly healed on their journey back to Terr'Havel, which he was extremely grateful for. The only things that remained, he saw as he removed the bandages, were the longer, deeper cuts that had been stitched by Ashana and the faint pink lines where other wounds had been. There was bruising present beneath it all, and Shivaroth offered to unwind the other bandage, doing so with deft hands when Ronan nodded gratefully.

When all was said and done, none of it looked too bad. The only other wound that had been deep enough to stitch was beneath his left eye, a thin, crescent-shaped cut where the skin had split along his cheekbone.

"I am glad to see you are mostly in one piece," Shivaroth said. "It is often a toss-up when it comes to mortals."

"So I've noticed."

Shivaroth reached up and tentatively ran his thumb over one of the older scars he bore, a small, silvery one on his upper lip.

"Ronan," he murmured after a moment. "Do these wounds...do they bother you?"

Frozen in his chair, barely daring to breathe, Ronan managed to fix the god with a confused look. "Those scars are years old, Shiva. They don't hurt anymore."

"But you remember the pain, do you not?" Shivaroth moved his hand from Ronan's lip to the semi-healed cut beneath his eye. "You are..."

"I am?" Ronan prompted after a moment. The silence was deafening, his voice barely making a dent in it.

"You are distracting," Shivaroth said, dropping his hand completely and standing, turning away before Ronan could catch a glimpse of his face. "I forgot what I was going to say."

Ronan smiled. It felt good, though the scabs on his cheeks pulled a bit. It had been too long. "Ah," he murmured, his grin audible. "Yes, I'm sure that's all my fault."

"It is. You are troublesome." Shivaroth scowled, but there was warmth behind it. "Stop laughing at me."

Indeed, he had begun to chuckle at the absurdity of it all—Shivaroth himself offered a quiet huff of laughter before he moved toward the door.

"I should leave you to your rest," he said when Ronan's smile finally faded. "And your bath, too. You must be exhausted, and I have pestered you enough. I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."

"Of course," Ronan said. "Always."

Shivaroth opened the door, then stood for a moment in the doorway, his eyes downcast.

"Shiva—"

"I am glad you are safe, Ronan. More glad than you could imagine."

He was gone from the doorway before Ronan could respond, leaving the prince alone to consider the god's gentle, accented words.

For the first time in a long time, the voices in his mind fell silent to let him think.


	23. XXIII. Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ronan and shivaroth plan their next step. acaeus searches desperately for solace.

They had caught everyone up by the time that breakfast had been cleared from the table in the great hall. The story of what happened in Kadena was told in tandem by Ronan and Zia, each of them taking over when the other trailed off. The reactions they received were even more intense than Ronan had imagined—the shock and terror on the faces of their audience as they recounted the shipwreck, Zia's brief glimpse of death, the pyre, Ashtei's intervention—it was all overwhelming. By the time they had finished the account, Shivaroth and Wynne had fallen entirely silent and Liliana, though she had managed to get some of the story out of Acaeus when they'd spoken the night before, had paled considerably.

Acaeus, who had not yet joined them, was represented by Liliana. When Zia finally put forth a halfhearted inquiry as to his whereabouts, she was the one to answer.

"He said he had to think," Liliana said softly from across the table, prompting a scoff from Ronan and a flash of anger across Zia's features. "I know you're both angry, but he was only doing what he thought was right." Wynne was silent beside her wife, her chin in her hands and her brow furrowed. She'd said little since they'd begun their story.

"He may have believed it was the noble course of action, but he still could have gotten us all killed. That's not something you forgive in a day." Ronan's utterance was met by a nod from Zia. Shivaroth, who had opted to stay standing and now stood leaning against one of the empty high-backed chairs on Liliana and Wynne's side of the table, frowned slightly.

"Have you tried to speak with him?"

"If I talk to him right now it's going to end in a fight," Ronan said sharply. "He must have realized that if he decided to stay away."

"I second that." Zia tapped the end of an unused butter knife against the table, which was scuffed in patches that her fidgeting would likely worsen. "I love him like a brother and this didn't change that, but I need to have a minute to breathe before we talk about what happened. The man nearly brought it all down single-handedly, the whole fucking point of this Circle. It would be impressive if it wasn't absolutely infuriating."

Ronan felt a pang of guilt. "I know he wasn't trying to do anything to hurt us. I'm not trying to make him into a villain, truly. I just need some time."

"No one will fault you for that," Wynne murmured. "I spoke to him last night. He..." she sighed deeply. "Talk to him when you get a chance, Ro. You'll want to hear what he has to say."

"I will." Ronan scuffed the toe of his boot against the ground. He'd have to unravel his own feelings first, or it would end badly for every party involved.

Wynne's focus shifted to Zia, who was still fiddling with the butter knife.

"You're sure you're alright?" She echoed a question that had already been asked many times within the last hour alone. "This healer, you're sure she took care of everything?"

"Yes, Wynne." Zia was being miraculously patient with it all. "If anything felt wrong, I would tell you."

"There's a healer just down the road a bit if you end up needing one," Liliana chimed in. "They know me there, they would be happy to help you free of charge."

"I appreciate it," Zia said.

The three of them continued their conversation while Ronan glanced over and locked eyes with Shivaroth. The god gave him a questioning look, in response to which Ronan mouthed, " _your plan_." Shivaroth winced, then nodded slowly.

"Before I forget," he interjected reluctantly, "there is something I must put forth." All eyes turned to him, and he kept his face blank before their questioning sets of eyes. Ronan gave him an encouraging nod. Shivaroth had already explained the presence of Ronan's premonitions to the best of his ability, which had earned Ronan a few alarmed glances from Wynne at the time, but allowed the god's next words to go smoothly.

"If I am to determine the extent of Ronan's premonitions, I will have to leave for a few days. It is a quick trip, just to the sea and back, and the knowledge I will acquire in doing so is well worth any danger I may face. The war is less prominent here, not to mention the fact that I am not a target of the Rhydellans, so I will be in considerably less danger than one of you—if you will allow it, I would like to pursue this lead." He spoke formally—his Adacian, usually so rounded by his accent, was sharp. He was speaking as a child in school would speak to their instructor.

Wynne spoke slowly, breaking the silence. "Shivaroth, you may not be the best choice for this particular outing."

"What?"

"Your skin is blue," Zia pointed out helpfully. "You're not exactly the most inconspicuous member of our party."

Shivaroth flushed. "That is true."

"Theoretically, that in itself could make you a target. Surely word has gotten around by now that there is a god walking the mortal lands; in Illirium this wasn't something we had to worry about, as it was unlikely anyone would have made the connection, but we haven't exactly been laying low since then. Not all mortals see a god and think to collaborate, especially not with one as young as yourself." Ronan was reminded in an uncomfortable moment of clarity that Wynne was, technically speaking, older than Shivaroth's current incarnation. She continued before he could dwell on that thought. "Some will see you and take you as vulnerable, seeing it as their chance to kill you, hold you hostage, or use you for their own benefit. There must be some market for a mortal god—you need to start realizing that this puts you in danger regardless of who your enemies are."

"I suppose you are correct," he muttered, "but unfortunately this is something only I can do."

Zia leaned forward, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"The place I mean to go is accessible only to the gods. It is unknowable to mortals unless introduced by one of the divine."

"And what is this place?" Liliana spoke in the tones of a scholar that had just been told of a lost city; her eyes were alight, a grin spreading across her face. "What kind of knowledge does it hold?"

" _Na Vokha'Siata_." Shivaroth spoke its godly name first, then translated as he had for Ronan. "The Archive of the Veil."

"But that's a myth," Liliana breathed. "A library like that—the things we could learn from it..." She nodded resolutely, sparing no time in making her decision. "I say you should go—but only if you bring me back some outlandish political dirt on Rhydel. If it's true to the legends, it would have stuff like that, yeah?"

Shivaroth chuckled. "It would. Beyond the history books and records, the thoughts of each individual mortal being are collected, bound, and shelved. There is undoubtedly plenty of your 'dirt' in the vaults."

"You're kidding," Zia breathed. "Are you saying every thought I've ever had is being recorded in some book?" She balked. "For everyone's sake, let's hope my volume is never read."

"We don't read those," Shivaroth said quickly. "Only Eltirash has access to the vaults."

"The goddess of death?" Ronan's brow furrowed. "Why?"

"So she can measure someone's character before judging them."

Zia gave Shivaroth a thumbs-up after a moment spent pondering. "Go for it. If Ashtei was right, something big is coming. Anything you can find that can get us a leg up will be worth the risk."

That left Wynne and Ronan. Ronan braced himself, then said the words he had dreaded.

"Do you still want me to come?"

All eyes snapped to his. Shivaroth nodded calmly.

"I do. It is the wisest course of action."

"Absolutely not," Wynne said harshly. "He's already had one near death experience in the last few days, he doesn't need another."

"I would not let any harm come to him," Shivaroth said with a placating tone that only seemed to put Wynne more on edge.

"I'm also somewhat capable of taking care of myself," Ronan muttered. "Listen, I want to know what's going on in my head sooner rather than later. This would allow a solution to that problem and the issue of Shivaroth's vulnerability. If we could make it through the mines in Illirium, we can ride to the sea and back."

Shivaroth was staring at him. "You have made up your mind, then?"

"I think so," Ronan said with a shrug. He couldn't deny the unbridled excitement he felt at the promise of seeing the library of the gods. Shivaroth's slight smile was enough to prove that he was feeling the same.

"Ro, you can't possibly be serious." Wynne sat forward. "If you are to be king, you cannot keep putting yourself in dangerous situations out of pure recklessness."

"If I am to be king," Ronan retorted, "these situations will only become more frequent and more dangerous. I might as well get used to them now."

Wynne pursed her lips. Ronan was ready for a fight, for Wynne to beg him to stay, but she only sighed. "You're right. You're an adult, your own man in every right. I won't always be around to protect you—it is wise to seek experience."

"Wynne—" Ronan began. She cut him off with a shake of her head.

"Go," she said solemnly. "Take care of each other."

"It will take three days at most," Shivaroth said, matching Wynne's tone. "We will not return empty-handed."

"When will you leave?" Zia asked, her knee touching Ronan's beneath the table in a silent show of support.

"As soon as possible," Shivaroth said, casting a glance at Ronan. "Do you have a preference?"

"I can be ready by tonight," he said. That would give him time to rest and gather his things. "Is there anything I should take?"

"Not that I can think of. All you will need is a weapon, just in case."

"Alright." He stood, his chair scraping against the carpeted ground as he stepped back. "Meet me out front at sunset."

"I will be there," Shivaroth said. He addressed the lot of them. "Thank you for agreeing to this."

Liliana and Zia nodded. Wynne said nothing, appearing to be lost in thought.

"I'm going to go prepare," Ronan said after a moment. "Thank you for breakfast, Liliana."

"Of course." She gave him a warm smile, then turned back around and murmured something to Wynne, who nodded in turn. Ronan waved to Zia and Shivaroth before ducking out of the dining hall and shutting the massive doors behind him.

The path to his room had become familiar by then. He walked out into the main hall, up the left staircase, and down the darkened corridor where the guest housing was situated. His feet were dragging by the time he got to his room, not from exhaustion but from dread. Ashtei's words, her promise of something that had yet to come, had been haunting him since he and Shivaroth had talked about it. He had already lived through the climax of his story; he had fought Aevar and won, he had survived his foretold death date, and he had retrieved Acaeus from Kadena. He couldn't take any more of this. Couldn't stand the thought of losing anything or anyone dear to him. There had already been too many close calls.

Ronan put his back to the wall and sighed deeply, leaning his head back. He was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't hear the door across from him open, nor the footsteps that stopped suddenly in the doorway. He only registered what had happened when a voice, tinged with surprise and something else, broke the silence of the hallway.

"Ronan," it said.

The prince gritted his teeth before forcing himself to relax. He opened his eyes.

"Acaeus," he said evenly, the absence of emotion in his voice telling the knight everything he needed to know.

The two stared at each other. Acaeus had cut off the burnt ends of his hair, leaving it at chin-length, which Ronan knew he must have hated. He had dark circles under his eyes and a few small bandages over the burns he'd sustained, but otherwise looked perfectly alright. If it hadn't been for the guilt-ridden, harrowed expression, he would have taken Acaeus' disposition as normal.

"I know you don't want—"

"You don't have to—"

They both spoke at once, cutting each other off. Ronan winced, then tried again.

"You don't have to apologize, Acaeus."

"Sure, I don't have to," he said softly, "and I know you don't want to hear it. But please, Ronan, you need to know how truly, deeply sorry I am. I acted on instinct, I didn't ever think you would come after me, I never thought I'd put anyone else in danger."

"That's the issue," Ronan murmured. "You were only thinking of yourself. You wanted to help me, but you didn't _think_ of me, or of the rest of us. That's part of what this means, Cae. Being in the Circle means bearing some level of responsibility. I don't doubt your ability to uphold that, but I—"

"No," Acaeus said. "You're right. Entirely." It wasn't rare for Acaeus to be serious, but the level of intensity in his gaze was certainly something new. "And I—I've been thinking that..."

"Let's not do this now." Ronan ran his hands over his face. "Please."

"If I don't say it now I won't ever be able to." Acaeus' shoulders were curled in as if he was trying to protect himself.

Ronan shook his head. "Listen, I forgive you, but this—"

"Ronan." The interjection was firm. "Don't lie. If you haven't forgiven me, don't say otherwise."

Ronan fell silent. No matter what he could have said to deny that, none of it would have been sincere. Acaeus averted his eyes when the lapse in speech had been drawn out to an uncomfortable length. He spoke, low and defeated, after a minute or so had passed.

"Please, hear me out. It'll only take a second. You can go back to whatever it was you were doing after I say my piece, I promise."

"Fine," Ronan whispered, shutting his eyes. "Be my guest."

"Everything you've said is true." Acaeus started in a rush. "I was selfish. I usually am. I'm not used to this, you know? I'm used to pirate ships and mercenary bands and—and cults, not this. In all of those situations you're part of a whole, sure, but for the most part you work alone. You do things that you know will be for the best of the group and your leader; if you get killed, you get killed. They can always replace you."

"I'm really not interested in excuses right now, Cae." Ronan's exhaustion was apparent.

Acaeus continued undeterred, his words coming quickly, as if he were trying to get them out before he lost the courage to do so—or before Ronan cut him off for good.

"My point is that I'm not meant for this. I've never been meant for this. Hell, I joined the tournament that got me into the Circle all those years ago for the money, you know that. I—" Acaeus ran a hand through his hair, and Ronan saw that it was shaking. "After this is over, I...I'm going to leave, I think, maybe go to Esadon, or the Isle of Lyr. At least for a year or so."

Ronan's heart nearly stopped. He struggled to find his voice. "You're joking." The words were bordering on malicious; he did nothing to make them kinder. "For years you've sworn you would never leave my side, and now this? What kind of game do you think we're playing, Acaeus? We risked our lives to get you back and now you're—" Acaeus caught his wrist as he moved to turn away.

"Hey! I said I'd stay with you until the end, and I meant it. I'll be beside you as long as you need me, or until we get you your throne. But you can't deny that I'm not cut out for this, Ronan, you said so yourself. Everything I just did should be proof enough of that. I act on whims and I work best alone—these are not qualities of a Circle member, they're qualities of a mercenary. A pirate. I can't shake my nature no matter how desperately I try to stray from it."

"And these last few years?" Ronan's lip curled. "What have those been?"

"A product of devotion," Acaeus said softly. "Love. Respect. I am not saying these things to hurt you, I swear it. I just—I know that this life is not the one I'm meant to live, not long term, and you do, too."

"That doesn't mean you have to leave."

Acaeus shut his eyes. "No. Perhaps not. But can you really picture me in court?" The knight chuckled. "Sir Acaeus the Foolhardy, right hand of the king, hopeless and drunk off his ass, stuck in the same life he worked so hard to flee in Rhydel." Somewhere along the way his words had turned bitter. "I can't be a noble again, Ronan. I'm meant for running. For being unbound. As much as I care for you, I can't—I can't be that person again. Not right now, not even for you. I'm sorry."

Ronan was silent as he struggled to process all that had just occurred. Acaeus opened his mouth to speak but the prince stopped him with a stern shake of his head.

"We'll talk about this when I get back," Ronan said venomously, turning and stalking down the hall toward his own door. Acaeus took a step as if to follow him and then thought better of it, instead calling out to him in a panic.

"Get back from where?"

Ronan paused with his hand on the door handle.

"The Archive of the Veil."


	24. XXIV. Library of the Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ronan and shivaroth arrive at the archive, and ronan stumbles upon a jarring discovery.

He refused to tell Shivaroth about the events that had transpired until Terr'Havel was far out of sight. He had managed a cordial goodbye; Wynne had hugged him, telling him to come back in one piece, while Zia had passed him an extra dagger and told him to see her when he returned. He had agreed, then turned to bid Liliana farewell. Acaeus had reluctantly come outside as he made to get on his horse—miraculously, he kept his tone steady and unconcerned as he echoed the same goodbye to him.

Shivaroth had caught wind of trouble, of course, and had asked about it immediately, but he'd kept his jaw clenched and his shoulders tight until they were well on the road. When he finally admitted it, it was defeated and small, almost lost to the pounding of the horses' hooves.

"He is leaving, then?" Shivaroth asked, mercifully averting his gaze as Ronan swiped his sleeve angrily across his eyes as the tears he'd been holding back finally came forward.

"That's what it sounds like," he said, a miserable tremor in his voice. "It doesn't matter. I got on fine without him before."

"Ronan, you are allowed to be upset. You love him, he has been there by your side since you were a boy, you are allowed to want him to stay. You do not have to hold that back."

"But I—" he shook his head, ashamed. He sounded like a child. "I appreciate the thought."

It was dropped after that, and neither of them spoke much as they rode, each lost in their own respective thoughts. Ronan briefly wondered what Shivaroth was thinking about—upon glancing up at him, he found that the god appeared to be completely at ease. The only thing that gave him away was the dejected, downturned angle of his pointed ears. They each had much to process. It was not surprising that whatever Shivaroth was thinking about was distressing—or at the very least immersive—enough to manifest physically.

Their journey was miraculously unhindered. They ran into none of the things Ronan had come to associate with his gradually worsening luck; there were no soldiers, no near-death experiences, no visions. Even his mind had gone silent, allowing him a brief respite from the voices. He let himself relax.

It was late enough in the evening that they didn't pass many travelers on the road. The route Shivaroth was taking them on led them through towering stone ruins and small villages, providing a multitude of sights to occupy his thoughts. The going only got rough when they entered the mountain pass, as while the snowfall had been light in the Midlands it was anything but the moment they got above sea level. It soon became so hard to see that Shivaroth raised a hand and summoned a shimmering ball of light in his palm, illuminating their path but doing little to cut through the blizzard around them.

Ronan simply pulled his cloak tighter around him and tucked his face into the fur collar, shielding his lips and nose from the worst of the cold.

"Ronan?" Shivaroth called his name from the front about an hour or so after they'd entered the pass.

"What is it?" His voice was muffled by the cloak, and he slowed his horse to a stop as Shivaroth did.

"Would you pass me the map?"

Ronan did, and Shivaroth studied it for a moment. A bird called somewhere in the distance, and received an answer a moment later. They must have been close if Ronan could hear them above the storm.

"Alright," Shivaroth said, handing the map back to Ronan, who tucked it into his saddlebag. "We will soon be out of the pass, and then it is a straight shot to the sea."

"Where exactly are we going?" Ronan asked. "There aren't any structures as large as you say this library is on this side of the mountains."

"You will see," Shivaroth murmured, audibly smiling. "I believe you will appreciate it more if it is unknown to you until we arrive."

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say." Ronan couldn't help the grin on his face. It was strange, he mused as they began to ride again, that he was taking such joy in this. Every journey they had taken up until that point had been life or death, full of pain and terror. Perhaps their current escapade would end up holding the same weight, but the promise of something as beautiful as the archive was said to be spurred him forth with a passion he hadn't had for anything in a good while.

Shivaroth, to a lesser degree, seemed to feel the same. He had unbound his hair, letting it fly loose around his shoulders for the first time in weeks. His thoughts seemed to have moved on from whatever it was he had been thinking about a few hours prior, as his eyes were bright and alert. With a bit of surprise, Ronan realized that this was the most comfortable that he had seen the god in a long while; he looked free, unburdened, as he hadn't since he had been torn from Serenvah.

They left the pass an hour later, cold but not discouraged, determined to make it to the sea before the sun rose. Ronan reveled in the feeling of the wind in his hair as they came out of the mountains and rode back onto paths that were hardly touched by the snow.

Adacian terrain was strange. Cliffs and mountains dominated the western edge, while the Midlands were smoother and the east was peppered with deep forests and grasslands. The east had obviously become a favored place to populate due to its ease of access, but Adacia Proper had been built on the northernmost point of the island in and above a cliff face to discourage sieges on the castle. Evidently, Ronan thought bitterly, that had not done them much good in reality and had in fact done them a disservice when they were cornered by Rhydellan forces, but it had always given the illusion of safety. He allowed himself to consider what would come next—he did not know if he would ever return to Adacia Proper and win his city back, but the thought of it brought a surge of warmth to his chest. Another thought occurred to him, then, that he voiced a moment later.

"Shivaroth?"

He spared Ronan a glance, his face shrouded in shadow now that he had extinguished their source of light to conserve magic. "Yes?"

"What do you want to do? You know," Ronan said sheepishly. "If we live. When all of this is over."

The god considered this, a look of unease manifesting itself on his features. "I had not considered what would come next." He fiddled with the reins. "I am not sure how willing the pantheon will be to allow me back into Feihjelm."

Ronan's eyes widened. "You think they'll banish you?"

"No. They need me to preserve the illusion of their absolute power, especially without Aevar. They will keep me, but there will be consequences for aiding you and your Circle. I will likely wander Ishtel until they decide to allow me back."

"Why..." he trailed off. Shivaroth looked over at him when he didn't continue after a moment or so. "Why are you helping me? If you know that the Seven won't let you back in if you continue to aid me, you should do what's best for yourself."

Shivaroth looked slightly taken aback. "I believe that what you fight for is just, while what my family fights for is the direct opposite. I would take your side in this conflict whether we were close or not, though I likely would not be so involved if we were not familiar with one another." He sighed. "There are other reasons, of course, but they are less important. Just know that I do not regret my choice, and I will stand by you until you no longer need my assistance."

Ronan paused. "I don't just have you around because you're powerful, you know."

"What?"

"You said that like I asked you to stay only because you're some kind of asset."

"Is that not the reason?"

Ronan shook his head, shocked. "No. I asked you to stay because at the end of the day, I trust you with everything I have. We've known each other for a long time now, for most of both of our lives, and past that you've stood by me unflinchingly for the duration of your time on Ishtel."

Shivaroth's expression was unreadable. Ronan continued.

"So yes, I am comforted knowing that the power of a god is on my side, but that comfort would not be present if the god in question was not you. It wouldn't be the same if it was Hanwey or Felhan or someone else. We've faced some of the hardest days in my life side by side, Shiva. You are a big part of why I'm still standing here today. You're not some kind of tool for me to use, you're my..." Ronan stopped. 'Friend' seemed like the wrong word. Could one assert that? That they were friends with a god? That seemed like pure hubris. "You're important to me," he said after a moment of consideration. "From what you've said, I am important to you, too. I hope you can see our relationship as something beyond an exchange of services."

"Oh," Shivaroth said softly. "Thank you for saying so."

There was silence between them, and then Shivaroth said, "what about you?"

"Huh?"

"What will you do when this is over?"

Ronan groaned. "I don't know. I don't even know where to start, to be completely honest. I'll have to raise an army, take back my island, write up new treaties, rebuild. I don't think I'm...I don't know. I don't think I'm ready for whatever will happen next, but I'll have to be, for the sake of my people."

"You will not have to bear that burden alone," Shivaroth said.

"I know." Ronan followed Shivaroth as he broke away from the main road and travelled instead across a barren grassland. He could smell the sea from there; the air was heavy with salt and brine, and he uneasily continued forth, recalling his and Zia's shipwreck with a sudden resurgence of fear. He pushed it down harshly. Now was not the time. He would get through this trip without any sort of breakdown if it killed him.

The sun was starting to rise behind them, cresting the mountains, and Ronan began to realize that there was absolutely nothing around them. No buildings, no tents, no ruins. They were approaching a cliff face, and when they reached it Shivaroth reined in his horse and dismounted, walking forward and looking out over the sea that struck the cliff face twenty feet below. Ronan followed suit, stumbling once due to the stiffness of his legs, before he too was looking down into the water below.

"Here we are," Shivaroth said triumphantly.

Ronan gave him a look. "This is the ocean," he muttered. "Not a library."

Shivaroth shot him a half-annoyed glance, walking to the cliff's edge and planting his feet firmly against the stone.

" _Na avok Shivaroth ton na vokha nora_." The god Shivaroth bids the veil open.

The air before him shimmered as he spoke. Ronan's mouth dropped open as it solidified, became corporeal, and lowered itself down toward the sea, where it descended farther past the waves. He cautiously edged forward to see it in its entirety, and as his eyes set upon it, his mouth dropped open.

The structure, Ronan saw, was a staircase. A staircase with lights at the end of it, lights that shone up through the waves and illuminated the dark waters.

"By the Seven," he breathed. "The ocean _is_ the library."

"Indeed it is," Shivaroth said with a hint of amusement. "The archive stretches beneath the water between here and Kadena. It moves from time to time, but it has been here throughout the last century."

"It moves?" There was a childish awe in his voice. Shivaroth nodded.

"In Leta'Anvaroth's time, it was in the ground beneath Ferenheld. Before that, it was above the Midlands. We move it to protect its wisdom from those that could abuse it. While only gods possess the ability to make it corporeal, there is always a chance someone else will find a way inside."

"I don't—this is—"

"Wait until we are inside, Ronan," Shivaroth said with a smile. "There is much more to see than a simple staircase."

Ronan stared down at the apparent structure held beneath the waves as Shivaroth led their horses over to a small grove of windblown trees and tied them on a length of rope long enough to allow them plenty of room to roam. There was a pool of water nearby, Ronan saw upon glancing back, and he was glad that there was a place they could recuperate while he and Shivaroth were inside the archive.

By the time the god was back, Ronan was more excited than he'd been in months.

"Are you sure it's alright for me to be here? It won't make things worse for you?"

Shivaroth chuckled. "Considering all of the other things I have done to anger my family in the recent past, I would assume it is safe to say this is not going to be the first thing they criminalize upon my return. Follow me, it will be perfectly alright."

Shivaroth shook his hair from his eyes and stepped forward onto the stairs, walking down them with the ease of one that had walked them many times before. When Ronan stepped forward he was more cautious; the stairs were partially transparent, as if they were made of opalescent glass. It was unnerving to be so high up with so little between him and the open air.

He stayed a step or two behind Shivaroth as they neared the water. His eyes widened as he saw the point where the stairs descended past the waves, miraculously dry though the sea continued to swell around it; it was as if a chunk of the water had been cut away cleanly with a blade. As they passed the threshold Ronan looked up, awed by the glow of the sun through the thin layer of water above him. The sea engulfed the steps he had just been standing on, closing off the entrance, and through the waves Ronan saw the rest of the staircase above them shimmer and disappear. He reached out and caught Shivaroth's arm, nodding to the sealed exit.

"Is that—"

"So no one follows us," Shivaroth reassured him. "It is perfectly normal."

Ronan nodded uneasily, examining their surroundings. The sea made up the walls, and the staircase continued to descend. Points of light not unlike the ones he had seen Shivaroth summon floated above them, near the high, liquid ceiling. The walls of water darkened as they went lower, and at one point Ronan reached out experimentally to see if they had maintained their consistency; his hand sank in up to the wrist, and he laughed incredulously. Shivaroth, turning upon hearing him, smiled.

"It is wonderful, is it not?"

"How does it work?" Ronan asked, withdrawing his hand from the wall and shaking the frigid water from it. "I've never seen anything like this."

"I do not know how it works," Shivaroth confessed, "and I never thought to ask. Feihjelm holds many places like this, it always seemed normal. I did not pay much mind to the fact that the very existence of the archive violates many laws of mortal science."

"It has to be some kind of magic," Ronan said aloud as they continued down to the lights below. He moved his hands rapidly as he spoke, illustrating his points. "A raw elemental force of some sort. When I was studying back at the palace, I was always interested in the laws of magic. This—if my instructors had known that a place like this could exist on our plane, they would have had to rethink everything they had ever learned."

Shivaroth hummed thoughtfully. "It may be that this is a level of magic that mortals cannot attain," he said. "Your laws may still hold."

When they reached the bottom, after what seemed like an eternity, they found themselves before a pair of tall black doors adorned with designs painted in a smooth emerald green. As Ronan watched, they shifted and danced, much like Shivaroth's tattoos in Serenvah. He took a deep breath, and Shivaroth reached out and put his hand on the handle.

"Are you ready?" The god asked, glancing over at Ronan. The prince nodded, moving up to stand by Shivaroth's side. Shivaroth exhaled, leaning forward and pushing the doors open with his shoulder. When they had fully opened he stepped back, smiling slightly as Ronan, awestruck, took a few steps into the archive.

He couldn't focus on any specific feature; the whole of the library was breathtaking. There were old oak tables before him, two by two in the center of the main chamber, stretching back until they faded from sight. The shelves were organized around them, stretching up a good fifteen feet before they reached the second-floor ceiling. Winding staircases led up to the next level, then from the second floor to the third, continuing up until he stopped counting. The walls were visible this time, paneled wood hung with massive tapestries depicting the history of the gods. Shivaroth was visible in most, his flowing hair and clothes an odd fit with the angular style of the weaving. It was lit by floating spheres of light that hummed with magic.

The library itself stretched up and back for what seemed like an eternity. If it truly ran from Adacia to Kadena, he didn't even want to attempt the math that would determine its size.

"By the Seven," he whispered, turning in a slow circle. "This—Shivaroth, this is incredible."

The god smiled. "I thought you would appreciate it."

Ronan surged forward and took Shivaroth's hands in his, grinning with a joy he had not felt in ages. "This—this is the most wonderful thing I've ever seen. Thank you. Truly"

Shivaroth chuckled, ducking his head in embarrassment. "You are very welcome, dear one."

Ronan dropped his hands and moved to the nearest shelf, reading the names of the books aloud. Most were written in Old Adacian, organized by author. He translated as he spoke. "History of the Seven Islands, Secrets of the Pantheon, The Forgotten Three, Crimes of the Gods—I've never seen these books before," he breathed. "Never heard of them."

"The archive holds every book ever written, regardless of whether or not all of the earthly copies were destroyed. This library may not be the pantheon's dearest treasure, but it is mine. It holds the written history of every place and every person imaginable. The civilizations that came before you have their lives detailed in these halls, and the civilizations that come after will have the same. The knowledge the archive holds is enough to destroy or to create. It is crucial that it remain hidden."

Ronan was struck, then, as Shivaroth turned to look over the titles on another shelf, that it must have taken a monumental amount of trust to even allow Ronan to see the location of the archive. If, as Shivaroth had speculated, he was truly the first mortal to enter, this was nothing to be brushed aside as if he had been given a pleasant gift for his birthday. This was something akin to baring your soul. His next inhale felt sharper than the last.

"Shivaroth?"

"Hm?"

He was going to speak his thoughts aloud, but thought better of it. He cleared his throat. "Is there anything I should look for?"

"Books of prophecy," Shivaroth said. "From any time and any place. I do not know exactly what it is we are looking for, just that the answers we desire are sure to be detailed somewhere."

"Prophecy," Ronan murmured. "Alright."

"And if you happen to get lost, all you need to do is establish a mental link. I will guide you back. We will cover more ground if we split up. I will take this side, you take the left. We will meet back at this table—" he nodded to the one second from the door, "after a few hours, alright?"

"Sounds like a plan," Ronan said. Shivaroth's back was to him, and he stared for a few moments before dragging himself away. "I'll see you in a bit, then."

"Of course, of course." Shivaroth's voice was distant, already distracted. Ronan smiled slightly, opting to leave him to it and duck left into the rows of shelves.

They went back farther than he expected, and he walked for about ten minutes before he hit a wall. There was a massive window in front of him, and beyond it was the sea. Ronan's mouth dropped open as he saw something large and dark move across the other side of the glass. There were strange beasts in the sea that lurked in the depths, everyone in the archipelago knew this; they washed up on the beaches occasionally, messes of scales and teeth, sometimes tentacles or sharp fins, always large and ancient. They didn't often come to the surface, but Ronan was nearly certain the silhouette was familiar in a way that made him uneasy. He suddenly found himself hoping that the window was reinforced by some godly magic. He turned from the glass after a moment, letting the bioluminescent sea life go back to their lives unobserved.

The shelves he had ended up in were filled with unfamiliar books, some bound in simple leather while some were engraved and patterned with gold leaf. Ronan began to scan the titles, looking for anything that seemed to be prophetic in nature.

Distantly, he heard low singing—it took him a moment to unravel that the voice he was hearing was beyond his mind and present in the library, and another moment to recognize it as Shivaroth's. He was too far away to hear more than a muffled tune, but it was good to hear his voice, however far it was from him.

The singing relaxed him, and he covered three rows of shelves fairly quickly, though without much luck. There were a few moments when he pulled out a book and skimmed through it simply out of curiosity, but as most of them were written in Old Adacian he was quickly reminded that he had never been the brightest scholar of language. He had picked up history and literary studies quickly, and taken to them with a passion, but his attempts to learn and speak other languages had often fallen through. He knew a fair amount of Old Adacian due to painstaking work, some Rhydellan thanks to Acaeus, and enough Esadonian to hold a diplomatic conversation, but little else. His extensive and immediate knowledge of Hjelohk had been unbelievable not only due to the nature of the event in question but because of his admittedly rocky history with languages that were not his own.

Most books, therefore, had to be left only half-understood. He picked up a few just for fun, intending to ask Shivaroth—who he assumed had a more extensive understanding of the many languages held within the archive—to translate the bits he couldn't read.

After what must have been half an hour, Ronan had come to the conclusion that Shivaroth had been telling the truth. The shelves were all neatly lined with books of every nature and genre, each written in a vastly different time, organized in some way that he could not comprehend. Record books were next to children's story books, novels next to ledgers, diaries next to cookbooks. Ronan snorted as he found a book titled _The Erotic Accounts of Sir Aewen Viher_ , unsurprised but greatly amused by the fact that the library of the gods themselves carried erotica. He moved past it, finding, finally, something he could use.

 _Prophecy of Lyr._ It was slim, bound in leather that had been dyed green. Ronan took it off the shelf, running a finger over the seal pressed into the front, a hawk with a sparrow's feather in its beak and an arrow in its talons. It was familiar—Wynne often wore a necklace with the same seal: that of her homeland, the Isle of Lyr.

He tucked the book under his arm with the rest, his thoughts turning to Wynne. Ronan knew she worried about him, that she always had. Her eyes were not only on the political blow Adacia would take but on his personal safety, which she had always put first. He wondered, briefly, if she would stay a knight after they took back his throne, or retire and go to live with Liliana. She was devoted to her title, and had always worked to uphold her vows, but she must have been tired of running. If Ronan had the choice, he would go off and live somewhere peaceful, leave Adacia entirely if he had to. He wouldn't blame her if she decided to do what he couldn't.

His hand froze on the spine of the next book he touched.

He would not blame her, but he blamed Acaeus. He could not for the life of him decipher where that discrepancy occurred.

Ronan knew he had been unfair. He read the titles of the books as he thought, desperate for a distraction. He would have to speak to Acaeus when he returned, but the thought was dizzying. Wincing, he ran a hand through his hair, which parted smoothly around his fingers.

Not only did he know he had been unfair, he knew Acaeus was right. He would be miserable in a royal court. He had joined the Circle to have an adventure, right after tagging along with a pirate fleet to escape the Ravenpledged in Kadena. His life was a mix of adrenaline-fueled whirlwinds, carrying him from Rhydel to Adacia to Kadena and back again, and Ronan knew he didn't want to give that up. He cursed softly.

It didn't matter right then. He pulled another promising book from the shelves, pushing down the guilt and the inkling of understanding he was desperate to ignore for the time being.

This book was titled _Foretellings_ , and upon opening it, he found it was written in characters he largely did not recognize. He added it to his collection and made his way past another window, walking aimlessly until he found himself standing before a large tapestry. It detailed Aevar, depicted in red thread with vibrant blue eyes, standing before a massive dark gate. He held a broken blade in his hand. Ronan glanced down at his belt where _Amon'Llyra_ hung. He had taken it with him upon Shivaroth's request, though the god hadn't explained why and Ronan hadn't asked.

Beneath the tapestry, a massive book sat open. Ronan set down his meager stack by his feet and hauled the book off of its pedestal, groaning at the weight of it. He lowered it to the ground, shutting it so he could see the cover and sitting cross-legged before it. He had a while before he had to return to Shivaroth, and the corner he had found was comforting. The vibrant colors of the tapestry framed his figure, hanging behind him, while the window he had passed a few feet back allowed him to see into the depths of the water.

The book in front of him, upon further examination, was a dictionary: _The Old Adacian Dictionary of the Immortal Language._ Flipping the cover open, the dedication page explained that it had been written by a scholar in collaboration with one of the high priests of the Church of the Seven, back before the gods had gone silent. Ronan flipped through the first section, awed by the size of the pages. He recognized most of the words he saw, though there were some that were unfamiliar, most of which had a note written at the base of their definition telling the reader that it was a word rarely used outside of the older members of the major pantheon. Dead words, he gathered. Ones that had been forgotten by most denizens of Feihjelm. The minor gods and nymphs must have been too young to remember them. He paused on one page, seeing a word he'd heard Shivaroth say a few days prior that he had only understood from context. He skimmed the definition, froze, then read it again, hanging on to each word as if it were made of gold.

 _Attai (ä_ _-tie-_ _ē):_ _"love." Lit. "more than the sun and stars." Intimate form of tannai._

_Used to convey a deep romantic affection. Most commonly exchanged in moments of high emotion, and considered inappropriate to use to connote platonic love. An older word rarely used by those outside of the primary pantheon._

_Example: "Vi'attai en ti na siva ota na viala sei vita." I love you to the edges of the world and back._

_See also: ahn'avine._

Ronan's heart was pounding. He flipped back a few pages, scanning for the word the dictionary had recommended. Upon finding it he exhaled weakly, reading over its definition while his hands began to shake.

_Ahn'avine (än ä-vēn): "I love you too." Lit. "and more than the seas." Intimate form of vi'tanna eta._

_Traditional response to vi'attai, conveying true romantic love and respect. An older word rarely used by those outside of the primary pantheon._

_Example: "Ahn'avine. Seta Temok voen sol altas." I love you too. May Fate bind our hands._

_See also: attai._

He slammed the book shut, wide eyes darting up to stare straight ahead. He allowed himself no time to think as he stood and hurriedly put the book back on its pedestal, grabbing his small pile of books and backing up a few steps as if he'd seen something he shouldn't have. Something secret. Something forbidden.

Ronan hugged his books to his chest, his knuckles going white from the sheer pressure of his grip. He turned without a word and walked deeper into the shelves, ignoring his pounding heart, ignoring whatever the use of that word had meant, and ignoring the fact that this was something that could not go unconfronted forever.

It could go unconfronted for now, he decided. He willed his heart to slow itself, begging whatever feeling was flooding his chest to wait until he had a place he could sneak off to and think, be alone, work through it all without Shivaroth's alarmingly insightful gaze resting upon him. He knew the god would know something was on his mind, and he dreaded it.

"Prophecy," he said aloud, breathless, forcefully tearing his thoughts away from anything relating to Shivaroth, to himself. "I am looking for prophecy." 


	25. XXV. Dead Language

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fate decides it has not yet had its fill.

Ronan returned to the table they'd agreed upon to find Shivaroth already there, perched oddly in one of the chairs, pouring over a massive volume written in Hjelohk. Ronan put his pile down without speaking, and sat a moment later.

Shivaroth glanced up at him, looking slightly disoriented.

"Did you find anything?"

"I picked up everything that I saw that looked promising." Ronan's heart was still beating uncomfortably fast. "I can't read most of these, though. They're written in languages I don't know. This one—" Ronan pushed a book forward across the table, "I didn't even recognize. It probably isn't anything important, I was just curious about it."

Shivaroth balanced the book he was reading against his legs and reached forward, picking up the small book Ronan had provided. He flipped through a few pages, his brow furrowed.

"It is written in the First Language," he said after a moment. "Though my ability to read it is mediocre, from what I can gather you have found an account from a civilization likely dating back to before your people as you know them even existed." He nodded to one of the other books Ronan had brought back out of curiosity. "I have read that one. It is about Vehkra, and his brief stint as the Void Guardian. It details the process of a mortal becoming immortal, which has not happened since."

"I didn't know that was possible," Ronan said, his mind elsewhere.

"Not many do," Shivaroth said. "That is purposeful." The god set the book he had taken from Ronan back down carefully, nodding to the one he was reading. "This is _The Book of Lamentation_."

"Sounds cheerful." Ronan took the change of topic in stride.

"The author supposedly collected all prophecies spoken by the Church throughout his lifetime. So far many have been accurate, but I have not found the one I am looking for."

Ronan leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "And what are you looking for?"

"Something that I heard a very long time ago," Shivaroth murmured. "Or, no. Leta'Anvaroth would have heard it, but it is in my memory."

"What was it about?"

Looking slightly uncomfortable, Shivaroth shook his head. "I would prefer not to say until I know whether or not it is applicable. I do not want to alarm you."

"That in itself is a bit alarming, Shiva."

"I know. I apologize."

Ronan sighed, shaking his head. "It's alright." He bit his lip. "If there's anything in Old Adacian or Hjelohk, I can try to read it. I could take a bit of the work off of your shoulders."

"Oh." Shivaroth nodded resolutely. "Yes, of course." He examined his own pile of books, about the same amount that Ronan had found, and pushed a few across the table after a moment. "Those are a good place to start." He paused. "I apologize for being so distracted."

"No, it's alright. I understand. This wasn't meant to be a vacation, there's work we have to get done."

"Yes," the god said. "Though I may have preferred a moment to relax."

Ronan gave him a slight smile. "I know the feeling."

He picked up the book closest to him, simply titled _Ancient Augury._ His mind, still racing, protested the idea of reading when there was so much to think about. He pushed past his initial resistance and opened the book, desperate to pretend the word _attai_ didn't exist for just a bit longer.

The book was brief; he read it from cover to cover within the hour. It contained small rhyming stanzas of prophecy, foretelling battles and births and deaths, but Ronan saw nothing about a prince with the ability to see the future. He put the book aside, and moved to the next.

It went on like that for most of the day. Ronan knew they would be leaving at some point after the next night and he was relying solely on Shivaroth to tell him when that was, as without any view of the sun he had lost all hope of tracking time. They read for a few hours, finished around the same time, and headed back out into the shelves to find more books. This time Ronan returned first and began to read, stacking up the books in languages he didn't recognize on Shivaroth's side of the table, preempting the request he knew would come. By the time he had finished the two books he had recovered, Shivaroth had not returned, and he went back out and wandered, looking at the spines of the endless books and thinking of nothing but what the prophecy they were looking for could say.

If Shivaroth was so hesitant about telling him, perhaps it was another one detailing his death. Though he had avoided one of those before, he was unsure if he had the ability or the desire to avoid another. He was tired of this, of being wrapped up in fate. He couldn't live his life fighting it, he would be beaten down until he was nothing more than a husk, left to—

He froze. A book bound in black leather was propped up on a shelf before him. He would have moved past it without a second thought but it bore a symbol he recognized beneath words he didn't—it was a single red eye, open wide, upturned at the edges with a strike through the middle.

The Eye of Aevar.

He drew the book from the shelf, flipping through its pages. There were pictures, some that he understood and some he did not. _Amon'Llyra_ was depicted in one, at the moment her blade shattered. Ronan exhaled sharply, shut the book, and made his way back to the table.

When he returned, Shivaroth wasn't there. There was a new pile of books to indicate he had been back before leaving again, but Ronan felt something deep in his chest, something dark and sure, something that had made his hands shake the moment he touched the cover of the black-bound book with the red eye on the spine.

"Shivaroth!" He yelled the god's name as loud as he could, unable to keep the hint of alarm from it. "I found something!"

The god emerged from the shelves after a minute or so, slightly frazzled. He crossed the room without hesitation and took the book from Ronan's hands as he offered it, opening the pages and murmuring words in a language Ronan did not understand as he read.

" _Naima toie neuvo coho siah hi..."_ The words faded in and out. This language did not sound like anything Ronan had ever heard. The god sank down into his chair, consumed by its pages, only halting his mumbling when he read something that made the stream of words end in a choked exclamation.

"This is it," he said hoarsely. "No wonder no mortals were able to unravel this—there are no copies of this book left in the entirety of Ishtel. _Ahn'Vahey._ "

"What?" Ronan crossed to the other side of the table, putting his hands on the back of Shivaroth's chair and leaning over his shoulder. "What does it say?"

" _Ronan Elria Aldrea veu shia nehe vo samoi—_ " he stopped reading when he remembered Ronan could not understand. "'Ronan Elria Aldrea will be killed by the god Aevar on his twentieth birthday,'" Shivaroth said.

"Yes," Ronan said impatiently, "we knew that."

"Let me finish," Shivaroth murmured. His voice was shaking slightly, and Ronan's nervous energy immediately shifted into dread. "Dated one hundred years before that, there is another prophecy that reads, 'the god Aevar will be struck down by a mortal hand.'"

Ronan stayed silent this time. Shivaroth's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair and his voice, usually so even, cracked and fell silent the next time he tried to speak. The god put the book down on the table and put his head in his hands.

"I knew it," Shivaroth said. His face was shielded by his hair, but his devastation was evident in his voice. "I—I knew—" Ronan shook off his initial horror and got on his knees in front of the chair, leaning up and gently pulling Shivaroth's hands from his face.

"It's okay. Look at me."

"Ronan—"

"Shivaroth, whatever it is, we can face it, I promise you—"

"Ronan, it is all my fault." Everything fell away around them. Shivaroth bit his lip harshly as tears sprung into his eyes. "I did this."

"What?"

Withdrawing his hands from Ronan's and taking the book from the table, he began to explain. "Do you remember how I died?"

"You took a blow for Aevar."

"Precisely. A blow that would have killed him in a heartbeat. Nowhere in any prophecy did it detail my death; when I returned, that, too, was unforeseen. I suspected, however, that Aevar was supposed to die that day by that mortal's hand, and this prophecy confirms it. The first date that is written, when this event was meant to take place, is the day that I died. The next, Ronan, is your birthday."

Ronan shook his head. "What does that mean, then?"

"This prophecy, both the one about you and the one about Aevar, have a footnote that refers one to the appendix. In said appendix—" Shivaroth flipped to the back of the book, visibly tensing up, "it says this. 'Should the god Aevar not be struck down on the first date detailed, he will be killed on the second. Whichever mortal does the deed shall face one fate.' Ronan, I—"

"Keep reading," Ronan said listlessly.

Shivaroth took a deep breath. "'Whoever kills the god Aevar is fated to eradicate the pantheon of the Seven. They will first hear, then they will see, then they will come to know their power. They will be aided by a god—" Shivaroth looked like he was in genuine pain. "Either Amiriah or Shivaroth, one of whom will have died once by this time. The destruction of the Seven will be imminent when the moon turns red and the right flame goes dark. A vision will come to the Prophet of Death that will foretell what is to transpire. Though there are two ways to achieve this fate, there is only one outcome. We...'" Shivaroth huffed out a weak, horrified laugh. "'We apologize for the confusion. Fate is ambiguous when it comes to matters of the divine.'"

They sat silently. Shivaroth put the book down and began to pull at a loose thread on his sleeve, his eyes blank and afraid. Ronan stood.

"And how is that your fault?"

"If I had not taken the hit for Aevar, all of this, every prophecy that has plagued you, it all would have been avoided."

Ronan shook his head vehemently. "And some other poor bastard would have had to carry the burden. Shivaroth, listen to yourself. You're saying that one hundred years ago, Leta'Anvaroth took a blow—"

"I did! Not him!" Shivaroth stood, his voice raised. "It may not have been me as I am, but it was—it was part of me, I remember doing it, this is not something I can pin on Leta'Anvaroth. We are both holders of this mantle, we are one person, in reality, just broken into two. This is my fault, I am the reason that you have experienced all of this pain, I am—"

Ronan grabbed Shivaroth's hands and glared up into his eyes. The god fell silent.

"I do not blame you for one single moment of this," he growled. "I will not let you blame yourself." He shook his head. "I don't blame Leta'Anvaroth either, for what it's worth, even though he isn't part of this. You, Shivaroth, are the one that has been with me since the beginning. You were here before the Circle, and you'll probably be here after. I can't tell you what to feel, but by the Seven, Shiva, you've done more to try to save me than most other people on this gods-forsaken island. You were the one that survived the mines with me, you were the one that brought me back from the brink of death, you were the one that showed me Serenvah, showed me this place, showed me—"

Ronan broke off and stepped back. His mind had gone numb.

He had started to hear himself at some point during his speech. The words had caught up to him, blindsided him, and a single word came to mind, this time not a purveyor of alarm but of shock and utter surprise.

 _Attai_.

It made sense to him. It made _sense_. It made sense, because at that moment he felt it at its source. It conveyed a romantic affection that he realized, standing there before a god made mortal in the center of the Archive of the Veil, that he returned.

Shivaroth was looking at him with concern. He recovered himself clumsily.

"I—the point is that—" Ronan steadied himself, took a deep breath, ignored his newly pounding heart. "The point is, Shivaroth, that you are the opposite of the problem. Yes, your actions changed something, but that was _one hundred years ago_. You said it yourself, you had seen no prophecy detailing what your death would bring. You did not even know who the name Ronan Aldrea would be connected to. You did nothing wrong in acting on a pure and selfless instinct, Shiva. Nothing at all."

"Thank you," Shivaroth said shakily. He may not have believed anything Ronan said but it did something to relax his shoulders, which Ronan would accept for the time being.

Ronan bit his lip, reluctant to ask his next question even though he was well aware that the answer was crucial. "I am this Prophet of Death, then?"

Shivaroth nodded. "It would appear so."

"And what does that—what does that entail?"

"I am not sure," Shivaroth murmured. "And I do not know how you are supposed to—ah. To destroy the pantheon. But I would assume it will not be by any simple means. If I were to guess, I would say that your role as the Prophet came from Aevar's death. When you kill a god, there is a chance that their power will be partially absorbed into you. I do not know how that would affect a mortal, but I think it is safe to say that becoming an _Avok'Shai_ was the first step to awakening these powers."

Ronan shuddered. "The visions started immediately after I killed Aevar. It lines up."

They were both silent, considering the implications of it all. Shivaroth spoke up after shaking his head.

"There are aspects of this prophecy that we do not yet understand, and I intend to find more information before we leave. The archive should have at least some of the answers we need." Shivaroth bit his lip. "It is late, however. You should try to get some rest. I will work quietly so you may do so."

"I can keep going," Ronan said easily.

"Very well, then." Shivaroth stood, looking a bit restless. Translating the prophecy had set him on edge. "Do what you will, but keep your well-being in mind." Ronan nodded. He would wait for Shivaroth to bring back more books to read, then get to work.

Ronan put his head down on his folded arms, intending to think through everything. The mantle of the Prophet that he now bore. Shivaroth's apparent love for him, and Ronan's moment of understanding. His own love for Shivaroth. After a few silent minutes of thinking, he found that his eyes were sliding shut unbidden. Trying to force himself to stay awake was a feat worthy of the gods themselves. He drifted in and out of sleep for an hour or so as Shivaroth worked, coming to and from the table as quietly as he could manage so as not to disturb him; at one point, distantly, he felt slender fingers run through his hair, and a moment later a coat was draped over his shoulders. He had leaned into the touch but had not quite woken, only partially aware of his surroundings. Ronan only truly returned to wakefulness when he heard Shivaroth's voice, speaking in Hjelohk, though he realized after a moment that Shivaroth had not been the one that startled him awake. Another voice, a woman's, smooth and unafraid, spoke lowly off somewhere behind him. Both voices were far away, but even so Ronan's skin went cold.

They weren't alone. Whoever Shivaroth was speaking to caused a familiar dizziness to overtake him. He knew that voice from somewhere. Carefully pushing himself out of the chair, he eased Shivaroth's coat from his shoulders and silently made his way toward the shelves, trying to get closer to the source of the voices.

" _—but there must be a way. Ronan has a talent for subverting fate, you have seen it too, you watched it happen_."

" _Do you still not understand? Even your brief diversion was fated, Dreamweaver. This prophecy is unavoidable, you know this as well as I_." That was the woman's voice. Ronan closed his eyes as he listened, and then it clicked; this voice was familiar because he had spent the night he nearly died listening to her words, listening to her utter _Avok'Shai_ , listening to her annoyed admission that she would not be able to take his life and would instead return for him another day. He pressed himself up against the bookshelf, keeping his breathing as quiet as possible.

" _I urge you again to consider our offer. The moment you return to Feihjelm, with or without our permission, you will regain your godly power; though if it happens without our approval, we can revoke it just as quickly. If you return with me now, however, we will restore you to your former glory without question and without punishment. Make the wise choice, Shivaroth. Will you choose us—your family—or the mortal prince that is destined to destroy us?_ "

" _I choose him_ ," Shivaroth said without a moment of hesitation. " _Listen to yourself. Everything our family does is for power, even when it comes at the expense of others. We do not value the lives of one another, much less those of mortalkind_."

" _You are being foolish, Shivaroth. He has corrupted you_."

" _He has shown me how wrong we are_."

" _Leta'Anvaroth would not have—_ "

" _But I am not Leta'Anvaroth, am I?_ " Shivaroth's voice was venomous in a way that Ronan had never heard it. " _I am an insolent child in your eyes, but you know that I am still an asset to you. To the pantheon. Have you taken over in lieu of Aevar? Is the power corrupting you, too?_ "

" _That is unfair_."

" _It is unfair to compare me to who I used to be_ ," Shivaroth retorted. His Hjelohk was clipped and swift.

" _We are done here_." The woman's voice carried a healthy amount of annoyance. " _I came to bring you home, to talk you down from this insolent stunt of yours, but you insist on playing at this childish charade_."

Ronan heard footsteps approaching him. Before he could scramble back, the woman he had heard speaking stalked past him.

Though he had never seen her before outside of religious imagery, he recognized her immediately. Her skin was nearly translucent, her eyes the same solid black as Shivaroth's. Her hair danced in the air behind her, long and dark, and her chest was entirely bare. She wore a simple skirt of black and gold, a sword at her hip, and bracelets of dark obsidian. She looked like a corpse.

Eltirash. This was the goddess of death.

His title hit him with the jarring force of a horse's hoof to the chest.

"Prophet of Death," Ronan breathed as she walked past. Shivaroth emerged, slightly surprised to find him awake, though he stayed completely silent. Eltirash didn't spare either of them a glance.

"Precisely," she said, stopping in the doorway with her back to him. "I imagine we will be seeing much of each other in the coming weeks, _Avok'Shai_." Her words rang out in the silent room, the sheer force of her voice staggering in itself. Without allowing a response, she opened the main doors and walked out into the darkness beyond.


	26. XXVI. Reconcile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ronan has a series of much-needed conversations.

They left the archive swiftly after that without a second thought. Shivaroth carried armfuls of books back up the stairs while Ronan put some in a bag they had brought for that purpose. The library had lost its source of comfort, having been infiltrated by someone so volatile, and both of them felt it viscerally.

Shivaroth didn't recount his conversation with Eltirash. Ronan didn't ask about it. He had heard the important part, and they were both aware of that. Any tension that they had previously lacked was now present in abundance. By the time they were out the door they were nearly running up the stairs, desperate to get back up above the waves and across the mountains. Wynne would have an idea. She always had an idea.

The journey back was faster than the journey there. They rode as fast as they could without straining their horses, and Shivaroth gave him a rundown of what he had learned while Ronan had been asleep. He explained that the Prophet's abilities, as he had suspected, were created by inheriting a fraction of Aevar's power. A mortal carrying the power of a god would be an agonizing process, according to what he'd read, which explained the pain. When Ronan asked what would happen to him, what the side effects were, Shivaroth had winced. None of the books he had read so far had offered any information, and the prophecy was vague. No mortal had ever killed a god and lived to tell the tale; the blacksmith Vehkra, who was responsible for Shivaroth's death and had momentarily taken up the mantle of the Void Guardian, was killed by Aevar before any information could be gathered. It was only written of in theoretical cases—Ronan was an outlier. A sole member of his people that differed from the rest in all of history.

They would simply have to see what would become of him. Whether he would make it through this 'destruction of the pantheon' or not. He did not have any desire to kill any other gods, there was not a shred of bloodlust present in his mind, but he supposed it had been the same with Aevar. It had been instinct, as if some other force had driven his hand and sprayed the snow with the blood of the divine.

Terr'Havel awaited them silently when they returned. It was morning. The sun was rising in front of them, behind the stone towers of the manor. They had explained themselves quickly to the rest of the Circle, and found their words met with wide-eyed looks of horror. Acaeus had excused himself after a moment, Zia had cursed and kicked the edge of a small end table, and Wynne had gone completely silent.

To a group that had thought they'd escaped this same, prophecy-bound situation mere weeks ago, this was the worst news that could have arisen. They parted ways with few words, each retreating to their own wings of the manor and largely managing to avoid each other for the following day and a half.

He hadn't seen Shivaroth much since they'd returned, as the god had been spending most of his time with Wynne in Terr'Havel's library attempting to piece together some last-ditch plan to stop the world from falling to pieces. At the very least this fact allowed him to push the realization he'd had in the archive even farther down, leaving it alone until he was sure he could handle it. Right now he had a multitude of bigger issues to deal with; his convoluted emotional turmoil could wait.

Ronan refused to mope. He forced himself to stay busy in order to avoid falling into something he couldn't return from, some kind of inescapable despair that he knew lurked around every corner, waiting for him to let his guard down so it could latch on and refuse to let go. He had let it take hold of him at Solthorne, and before then at the castle, and though he certainly wasn't at his best as he was, he was determined to avoid that same darkness.

So he worked. He helped Liliana with her carrier ravens, rode to nearby villages to pick up food and medical supplies—which Liliana said they needed just in case—and worked on honing his skill with a dagger in Terr'Havel's training grounds when Acaeus wasn't there. When he wasn't doing anything he would take a book out to the garden, sitting before the statues of the gods he was supposed to destroy as he read. It was one of those days, when he had nothing better to do and his book was doing a poor job of keeping his mind off of the matters at hand, that Acaeus stalked by without noticing him and stood before the half-circle of statues, glaring up at the visages of gods that were not his.

It had started to rain. Ronan, who had come outside with no shoes and light clothes, had taken shelter beneath the tree he had spoken to Shivaroth beside so many weeks ago. He was grateful that Acaeus, who had taken a knee before the statues, had not seen him.

He stood, closing his book quietly and moving out into the rain. Acaeus had started to speak. His eyes were closed, his lips moved quickly. Despite his seemingly frantic speech, his words were obscured by the storm. Ronan approached his knight unnoticed, his bare feet numb as they touched the stone. When he was finally close enough to hear, he simply listened.

"Revoke your hold," he heard Acaeus whisper. "Revoke your fucking hold. You are the gods of a broken people already; why do you seek to break them further by destroying their last pillar of hope? These prophecies, these bullshit prophecies you love so much, why do you uphold them? Why not let the prince go, and avoid your own destruction? Are you so intent on bringing death into your halls?"

Ronan's foot slipped sideways, and Acaeus stiffened at the noise. His prayers, if they could be called that, ceased abruptly.

"Didn't expect you to be a godly man," Ronan murmured, forcing a joking tone into the words as he broke the silence that had been upheld between them since Ronan's return. "I have never heard you pray before."

"Yes, well." Acaeus nodded to the statues, still kneeling, his white hair darkened and plastered to his forehead by the rain. "I take issue with these gods of yours. They meddle in business that is not theirs to meddle in. Threaten lives that are not theirs to threaten." Acaeus stood and turned his back to the marble figures, his wry smile a compliment to the raging storm.

"Besides. You don't have to worship the Seven in order to curse at them."

"A compelling argument," Ronan admitted with a halfhearted smile. They looked at each other for a moment, silent, before something stronger than their mutual unease drew them together. Ronan took a few steps forward, ignoring the fact that the rain had soaked uncomfortably through the white tunic he wore as he tentatively opened his arms, holding his book awkwardly in his left hand.

Acaeus bit his lip. There was still space between them but he closed it a moment later, drawing Ronan into a tight embrace and lowering his head so the bridge of his nose pressed against Ronan's shoulder. They stood like that, silent, reveling in the fact that they were both alive, before Ronan pulled back and straightened his shoulders.

"Acaeus," he said, having to work his way up to the words he meant to say. "If you want to leave, now or whenever this is over, you have my blessing." Acaeus' eyes widened. Ronan continued, knowing he would lose his nerve if he stopped now. "All that you have done for me over the years, all that you have sacrificed—you have more than fulfilled your vows. I will not hold you back." Ronan forced a smile, though he felt as if he was losing a part of himself. "I will not hold you back," he repeated softly, "but I may force you to join Wynne and I for dinner at the palace from time to time."

"Ronan, I..."

"You will always be part of this—this family, or whatever it is. You will always have a place among us if you want it. All you have to do is ask, and I will restore your title as a Knight of the Circle." He shook his head. "I do not want to force you into a position that would make you miserable. I love you, I always will. You're one of the most loyal friends I have ever had. As much as it hurts me to say this, it would hurt me a thousand times more to watch you suffer. You're free to leave, Acaeus, whenever you feel you need to."

As soon as the words were out, the tension drained from his shoulders. A weight was lifted from his chest. It was the right choice, as much as it pained him, and he exhaled slowly to steady himself.

"Thank you," Acaeus whispered. "And please, I need you to know that this—I'm not trying to get away." He stopped. "Well, no. I am, I suppose, but not from you. Not from the Circle. I don't want to leave you, Ronan, not in a hundred years, I just can't be trapped in a palace for my whole life. I can't tiptoe through politics until I die."

Ronan chuckled. "I'd love to see you try."

"Oh, by the Three, no you wouldn't. I'd start three wars within two days and have no idea how I did it."

"Well, at least I know it won't be dull when you visit." Ronan went quiet. "You _will_ visit, won't you?"

"Of course I will. Once a month at least. Who knows, maybe I'll bartend at one of Liliana's taverns in the outer city. No matter where I end up, I swear that I won't disappear on you. I'll send letters and everything." He made a face. "Although, I've never been the best writer. I always sound too serious on paper."

Ronan shivered. Acaeus, realizing the conditions of the weather in a rush, cursed.

"Get inside before you get sick, you imbecile! How do you expect to be king when of the both of us in this garden, I'm the one with common sense?"

Ronan snorted. "Well, it will certainly be an agonizing experience for my advisors. How will I survive without you?"

"You won't, apparently. By the Void." Acaeus was grinning through his feigned annoyance, his voice light and relieved. They were both slightly giddy from it all. Their situation, one that had seemed so dire, had for the most part been resolved without issue. While Ronan had hoped that Acaeus would change his mind, he knew that it was best that they had come to an understanding, however tentative. It felt good to walk by his side again, unburdened by the anger he had felt before.

As they walked through the main doors, Ronan stopped him.

"Acaeus."

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Acaeus gave him a curious look. "For what? I haven't done anything."

"You mean aside from nearly getting yourself burnt at the stake on the Dead Island in an attempt to figure out what was wrong with me?"

"Ah," Acaeus said sheepishly. "I was under the impression that you hadn't appreciated that much."

Ronan shook his head. "I didn't. I don't. But you...I don't know. I have never known someone to be so selfish while at the same time risking everything in the name of another."

"I can't tell if that's a compliment or not."

"Neither can I. The point is that you did something for me that was inherently selfless, and nearly got killed for it. Regardless of what other events your decision triggered, the least I can do is thank you. What happened to Zia and I wasn't your fault. It is unfair of me to blame you for it."

"What about what happened to me?" Ronan and Acaeus froze, turning to the source of the voice with surprise. Zia stood at the top of the left staircase, a single eyebrow raised.

"Hey, Zia." Acaeus gave her a wave, then turned to Ronan. "I'll leave you two to it," he murmured. "Thank you again, Ronan. For everything." He raised his voice so Zia could hear. "See you both later."

Ronan waved and Zia called out her own farewell as Acaeus put up his hair, barely long enough to make it into a short ponytail after the hasty haircut he'd given himself, and ducked into the dining hall.

"Talking about me behind my back, are we?" Zia made a graceful descent, chuckling as Ronan's cheeks flushed.

"I see you've picked eavesdropping back up."

"Indeed. I was never able to resist. I find it happens to be my favorite pastime." She hooked an arm through his and led him through Terr'Havel's angular halls, coming to rest in a room that was nearly all windows. Had the sun been out, it would have been cheerful; as it was, with the rain running down the glass in rivulets, it was still comfortable, if not slightly gray. A chess board sat in the center of a small table set up between two rather dusty looking armchairs. Ronan smiled.

"Is this where you've been hiding out?"

Zia sighed. "It is, though it gets rather dreary playing chess by myself. I always win."

"I can imagine." Ronan took a seat in one of the armchairs as Zia sank down in the other. "Is that why you've brought me here? So you could win against someone other than yourself?"

"You're too keen," Zia said with mock despair, a grin curling the corners of her lips despite her efforts to stifle it for dramatic effect. "That is precisely what I intend to do."

"Oh, go on, then, let's get this over with. You know I'm no good at chess."

Zia grinned, positioning herself so she was sitting on her knees. Her excitement was tangible as she set up the board. The pieces were made of copper and silver respectively, and she pushed the silver ones toward his side of the board while keeping the copper ones on hers. She allowed him to make the first move a moment later, though they both knew it would do nothing to help him win. After a few turns, Zia seemed to get restless, and glanced briefly up at him.

"Are you worried about what's coming?" Zia kept her eyes on the board as she spoke, moving her piece after a few quick, calculating nods.

"Yes." Ronan took his turn. "I don't know what's coming, but I don't like the sound of any of it. I just wish it was over."

"If I could take the prophecy from you, I would," Zia said forlornly. "I could have my adventure, you could have your peace."

"You'll get your adventure, Zia. I'm sure of it."

"I mean, this is certainly something of an adventure in itself. I just—" she sighed. "Ah, I'm sure you're not interested in hearing about my woes. It's nothing terribly important anyhow." She moved a piece, capturing one of Ronan's pawns.

"On the contrary. I think I'd quite like to hear about someone else's problems right about now, I've been thinking about my own enough as it is. Besides, isn't that what I'm here for? We're friends. I'll always listen to anything you have to say."

"That's kind of you," Zia murmured. She seemed to struggle to find the words, the lost look on her face unlike her. She fidgeted with the locket around her neck, scratched and dented from their brush with the reef. "I suppose it's just that I can't help but wonder what will happen when this is over. No matter how it ends. Unless I die, of course—"

"Don't say that," Ronan said sharply.

Zia shrugged. "It could happen. The point is that unless I die, I'll be heading back home after my duties to the Circle have been fulfilled." She shook her head, capturing one of Ronan's knights without a second glance. "Many of my advisors were unhappy at the prospect of me coming here. I'm sure they went absolutely ballistic when Reya told them that I had stayed."

Ronan winced. "I'm sorry if I got you in any trouble."

"Oh, don't be. It's something to do, at least. It's so dull being queen, even with the outlandish company I keep. Gods willing, my idiot friends haven't tried to launch some kind of rescue mission to save me from whatever fate they've convinced themselves has befallen me. They'd do it," she muttered. "Nella was especially vocal about her distrust of you."

"Is that so?"

"She doesn't trust anyone, really. Don't feel too special. Merri was off at work in his father's shop, but I'm sure he would have defended you if he'd been there. He always said you were someone he'd like to meet."

"You hadn't mentioned them in a while," Ronan said. "I'm glad to see you're still in touch."

"I haven't had much time to leave the castle to see them." Zia shook her head. "By the Three, Ro, I hate it. I hate being queen. I figured I had a few more years left before I had to start training seriously for the position, and then...what? Twenty more years until my mother was unfit to rule? I never—" her voice broke. "My mother's assassination was unexpected. You know that. Everyone loved her, we never thought there was a chance that she'd be killed in her own hall. The fact that we still don't know who did it after a year and a half makes it worse; the bastard could still be in court for all we know." When she reached out to move her next piece, Ronan saw a slight tremor in her fingers. "But now there's nothing I can do about it, see? I'm queen whether I want to be or not, and I can't keep putting off my duties by gallivanting around away from home."

"It's a terrible amount of pressure," Ronan agreed, moving a piece into what he thought was a clever position, though he found himself proved wrong a moment later when Zia dismantled his strategy with a single pawn. "If there's anything I can do, you know all you have to do is ask."

"Thank you." Zia sighed. "After this business with your gods has sorted itself out, I'll have to go back. I can send troops to help with the war effort, but I won't be able to spare more of my own time. The months I've been gone are already pushing it. If they knew where I was, I'm certain they would have sent someone to fetch me by now."

Looking down at the board, Ronan found that most of his pieces had been taken. He winced. He had one of his knights, his queen, a rook, a bishop, and a smattering of pawns. Not the most promising array, especially when his king was relatively unprotected in the center of the back row. He turned his attention back to the conversation.

"You know I'll appreciate any help you can spare. It's more than enough that you agreed to come at all. I know you wanted an escape as it was, but I'm sure it wasn't an easy decision to make."

"I suppose not. I just wish I had a bit more freedom, you know? You would think you'd be the freest person in the country as queen, but instead it feels like I'm stuck in a prison cell." She moved her copper knight forward. "Check."

Ronan took the knight with his bishop, and Zia took his bishop with her rook. Ronan moved his king to the left, away from it all. He spoke in a distracted tone. "I'm dreading my own coronation, if it comes. I don't know if my people will even see me as fit to rule them at this point."

"Nonsense. You'd make a much better ruler than I, you have the head for it. You like the challenge, the politics. You don't mind staying in one place and making those infuriatingly formal diplomatic visits. I don't know how you did it when you were back in Adacia Proper, and I don't know how you do it now. I envy you a bit, honestly, though I envy the Freeriders and those other mercenary groups more." A smile played at her lips. "It would certainly be something to lend your hand to those that asked, wouldn't it? Without all the political bullshit, I mean. Someone would pay you, you'd get the job done, you'd move out with your caravan in a day or so. You could do as you pleased. Check."

Ronan moved his king once more, eyeing the position of his queen. Zia took the bait, moving her bishop in close, and Ronan moved his queen with the precision of one that had planned to do it, taking her bishop with a slight smile.

Her queen moved next, and took his. His smile disappeared. Her pawn was on his king's other side, her rook in the very back at Zia's end of the board. Her other pieces had been carefully arranged to block off all exits. She had anticipated his moves exactly.

"Checkmate," she announced cheerfully, knocking his king down and letting the piece topple over onto the board. "You got closer than usual this time. I look forward to seeing the day when you'll beat me."

"That will be a surprising day indeed," he said, leaning back in his chair and yawning. "Though I doubt it'll happen anytime soon."

Zia shrugged. "You never know." Her eyes widened. "Before I forget, Wynne wants to see you in the library."

He smiled slightly. He'd often gotten the same message from Acaeus when they had been back at Solthorne. "I'll make sure I stop by."

Zia stood, and he followed suit a second later. She smiled.

"I could walk you there," she offered. "I have a feeling that things will be getting busy quite soon. We may not get much time together before this all comes to a head."

Ronan sighed. "I fear you may be right." They walked to the door together, and Zia held it open for him. They walked down the halls with the reverence of a pair that sensed that it may be one of their last chances to do so, and when they reached the door, they embraced. Ronan shut his eyes tight and took a deep breath, committing the moment to memory.

"No matter what happens," Zia said as they released each other, "I will always have your back."

"And I yours," Ronan echoed. "Always."

When Zia had disappeared down the hallway, Ronan leaned back against the wall and exhaled shakily. Everything was becoming much too real, too imminent. There was no set date for this "eradication of the gods" he was supposed to champion, and in a way that made it worse—he had known when his death was supposed to come and he was able to prepare for it, but this was something he knew almost nothing about. It was coming soon, both Ashtei and Eltirash had hinted at that, but the question of how soon that was still remained. It was haunting him.

On top of that, his right eye had begun to ache relentlessly. It had been mounting over the last few days, getting steadily worse, and he knew that eventually he would have to track Shivaroth down and confront whatever it meant. The pain was sharp and nauseating, though when he looked in the ornate mirror that was mounted on the wall across from him, he could see nothing out of the ordinary. His eye, warm brown and perfectly clear, stared back at him, entirely unassuming. There was another spark of pain and he groaned, pressing the side of his hand hard against his eyelid in an attempt to stifle it. As he did so, a resurgence of the voices in his mind caught him off guard. At the head of them was a voice he now recognized: Eltirash.

" _You will meet us tonight, mortal_."

Ronan glanced around, making sure no one was nearby to hear before he spoke. "And how do you expect me to do that?"

" _Go to sleep. No matter where you do so, you will wake up in our halls. We need to speak to you, and it is no small matter to have an audience with the Seven. Do not take this lightly_."

"How do I know you won't kill me right then and there?"

" _If we were able to, perhaps we would, but Shivaroth has separated your dream consciousness from your mind and body—meaning that even if we killed you in your non-corporeal form, all it would do is wake you up. We will not harm you._ "

Ronan bit his lip. "I'll think about it."

" _You will be there. It is not a question_."

He felt Eltirash's presence fade rapidly, similar to the way Shivaroth's did when breaking their mental connection. He could recognize the sensation, now—perhaps one day he would be able to control it.

He was left breathless, his knees weak and his heart pounding. A thin sheen of sweat was on his forehead, and for a moment he felt as if he was going to be sick. Of course, it was then that the doors of the library had to open. Shivaroth exited in a hurry, his face buried in a book and his lips moving slightly as he mouthed the words he was reading. He would have walked right past Ronan if he hadn't extended a shaking hand and caught the god's sleeve, causing him to yelp and let his book slide from his grip.

" _Ahn'Vahey_ , Ronan, you—" Shivaroth went silent. Ronan's sickly pallor made it very clear what the situation was. The god stepped forward, his book forgotten, putting a hand on Ronan's forehead to gauge its temperature and wincing with sympathy when the prince leaned into his touch with a pained moan.

"Another vision?"

"No," he whispered. His right eye was watering. He rubbed it, but not before Shivaroth saw. "Eltirash said she wants me to meet her tonight in my sleep. I am to have an audience with the pantheon."

Shivaroth cursed. "I had a feeling it would come to this."

"I wish it hadn't," Ronan murmured. He met Shivaroth's eyes, his mind starting to clear. A cool, refreshing feeling was spreading through his body, and he traced it back to where Shivaroth had positioned his hand against Ronan's skin. He frowned in dismay.

"You shouldn't waste your magic," he said softly, ducking out of the god's grip.

"You were in pain, and I had the means to lessen it. I do not consider that a waste."

"Still. We don't know what we'll be going up against in the next few weeks, a few headaches aren't worth the effort. Thank you, though."

Shivaroth shook his head, changing the topic easily. "Are you going to heed Eltirash's summons?"

"I don't think I have a choice." Ronan tugged at the hem of one of his sleeves. "Will you stay in my room tonight? Just in case? I don't know how this will affect me, and I can't say I'm terribly excited to find out."

"Of course." Shivaroth fixed him with a determined look. "Absolutely. I will be there."

Ronan opened his mouth to say something else, then decided against it. "Thank you," he said finally. His head, thanks entirely to Shivaroth's magic, was mercifully light. He gave the god a slight smile.

"Of course." Shivaroth's eyes lit up in realization. "But you are here to see Wynne, aren't you?" He bent over and retrieved his book. "I did not mean to keep you."

"You didn't keep me from anything," Ronan reassured him.

"Still." He bit his lip. "I should let you be on your way."

Ronan chuckled. "You don't need to worry, you know. We have—" he stopped himself before he could say "plenty of time." Shivaroth filled in the words that weren't there and nodded solemnly. 

"I will see you later, Ronan. I—" Shivaroth cut himself off. "Best of luck until then."

"Same to you," he called out as the god turned and resumed his trek down the hallway, cutting their interaction off as abruptly as it had begun. He stood there for a moment, staring at himself in shock in the mirror across the hall, his mind whirling from the slew of events that had just occurred. He sighed, turning to face the double doors that led into the library.

One more high-emotion conversation, and then he could collapse back onto his bed and wait with Shivaroth until he was whisked away into some odd dreamscape.

He pushed the doors open.

Terr'Havel's library was smaller than Solthorne's had been, though its shelves were packed with twice as many books. While Solthorne's books had been damaged and gray with age, Terr'Havel boasted a multitude of vibrant volumes, bound in dyed cloth and leather covers boasting a wide array of hues. Ronan raised an eyebrow at the number of books that had been pulled off the shelves and laid out on the floor in a large circle. The old tables had been pushed to either side of the room, making space for the mess. In the center of it all was Wynne, who was sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a cup of tea at her knee and a book in hand. She looked up when he walked closer, rubbing a hand over her eyes and yawning.

"Good to see you," she said warmly, clearing a space on the floor directly across from her. Ronan tiptoed through the sea of documents, careful not to step on anything, and sat down in the space Wynne had provided when he got to the center. It occurred to him that while he and Wynne had spoken briefly, their last real conversation had been weeks ago. He stifled a wince at the realization.

"You too." There was a strong note of sincerity in his voice. "I'm sorry it's been so long."

"Oh, don't be. You were off doing important things, and I got to spend time with my wife. No harm done at the end of the day, wouldn't you agree?"

"Still," he insisted. "I've been neglecting everyone a bit. Being busy doesn't entirely excuse that." 

"Well, I appreciate the thought." Wynne set down her book and looked with brief disdain at her cup of tea, which he took to mean it had gone cold. "Truly though, I'm not upset. I've known you since you were a boy, Ro, I've had plenty of time to realize that there are going to be times when we are simply too busy to cross paths."

Ronan nodded to the books on the floor. "Is this what you've been busy with now, then?"

"Yes, with Shivaroth's help. We've compiled every book on prophecy and the inner workings of the divine. We've found a few different versions of the prophecy concerning you from the books you retrieved from the archive, and I thought there was one in particular you'd want to see."

"Oh?" Ronan leaned forward and accepted the piece of parchment he was handed. It was written in Wynne's angular, hasty lettering, which he had long since gotten used to reading. He recited the prophecies written on the paper aloud.

"'The Prophet will face the gods in their own halls, the hands of each party bloodied. To hold back the tide of darkness, something dear must be surrendered.'" He shook his head. "Lovely."

"It was written beneath one of the verses about the Prophet that Shivaroth retrieved from the archive. Scrawled in after it was published. From what we can gather," Wynne said softly, "there is no guarantee that you will live through this, but nothing saying you are condemned to death. We take that to mean that your survival is not something that Fate has foretold, therefore it will rely on your own actions. Shivaroth believes that the idea of this 'eradication' itself hinges on your decisions, that it can be brought about in a multitude of ways, but I'm not sure I agree. There are many instances of this prophecy that speak explicitly of a violent end."

"So you're saying nothing is set in stone?"

"No. I'm saying that the events will come to pass, but the means of reaching them has been left vague. If we are correct, that means that you will have some sort of choice to make that will determine the way this all plays out. I wish I could promise you that it will all be okay, but by now we both know that I would be lying." Wynne gave him a bittersweet smile. "Have you spoken to Acaeus and Zia? Just in case?"

"I have. I mended everything I could."

Wynne had a pained look in her eyes. "Good. I'm proud of you." She sighed deeply. "You're young. You shouldn't be this well versed in the procedure to follow on the assumption that you'll be dead before the week's end."

"Well, we can't always win." Ronan's throat tightened. "I didn't want to take any chances. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving anything unsaid."

Wynne leaned forward and cupped his face in her hands. "Listen to me, child. I take my vows very seriously, especially those that Liliana and I made to your mother. I will be by your side until the very end, until the sun falls out of the sky above us. No matter what happens, no matter what is coming, I will be with you so long as you want me."

Ronan's eyes filled with tears. All he could manage was a nod; he didn't trust himself to speak. Wynne pressed a kiss to his forehead and moved her hands down to his shoulders, holding on tight.

"I love you," she breathed into his hair. "I will always love you, no matter what happens. I promise."

The tears spilled over and ran down his cheeks without mercy. The reality was that there was a chance that they would never get to have a moment like this again; that one of them could die and leave the other alone, that both of them could die, that something unspeakable could happen. The thought of Wynne's body, bloodied and limp as Aevar's had been, made him surge forward and clutch at the back of her shirt, nearly knocking over her cup of tea as he buried his face in her neck.

She didn't protest. A moment later he felt tears soaking through his shirt, still damp from his walk in the rain with Acaeus. They were both frightened beyond belief, he realized, and there were no words to fix that.

"I love you, too," he whispered. He pulled back and looked up at her. Both of their faces were streaked with tears. Wynne quickly wiped hers away.

"Even if we both die tomorrow," she said, squaring her jaw, "I'll find you in the Dark Sea. I'll fight my way through a legion of gods if I have to. I'll cross through the gods-damned Void Gate."

Ronan gave her a watery smile. "As if any of that has the slightest chance of stopping you."

They remained on the floor of the library until it grew dark, remembering days spent side by side in Adacia Proper and the small adventures that always accompanied them. Their dread slowly bled away until nothing but warmth was present, until the prophecies scrawled on old paper were forgotten, until all that remained, somewhere at the back of Ronan's mind, were the whispered summons of Eltirash, calling him forth to an audience with the gods.


	27. XXVII. Eyes Alight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end always approaches more swiftly than anyone is prepared for.

Ronan couldn't sleep. The dread he had begun to feel at the prospect of speaking to a room of angry all-powerful beings had caused his heart to start pounding. After two and a half hours of tossing and turning, Shivaroth had climbed down from his perch on the nearby windowsill and come to sit on the edge of Ronan's bed, abandoning the research he was doing by the light of the moon.

Ronan's eyes had opened, and he'd turned to face the god miserably. "I can't sleep."

"Then you are lucky that I am the god of dreams." Shivaroth had nothing but warmth in his eyes. "I will aid you for the night, if you wish."

"But your magic—"

"You have a meeting to keep, and I have the power to get you there. What do you say?"

Ronan sighed. "Only if it won't hinder your ability to do more important magic in the coming days. I can't have you exhausting yourself over me, after all."

Shivaroth smiled softly, and ran a hand through the prince's hair. Ronan felt an immediate wave of exhaustion at the touch, and his eyelids fluttered.

"Ronan Aldrea," Shivaroth murmured, "I bless you with a deep and peaceful slumber."

He was out before he could feel Shivaroth's hand retract from his hair. His body was heavy, weighed down by the pull to sleep, but he could feel, faintly, that his mind was being called elsewhere.

The weight faded away. He felt something cool and solid beneath his bare feet. When he opened his eyes he was standing in front of a set of massive wooden doors with intricate, shifting silver adornments. Looking down at himself, he found that he was wearing a simple high-collared tunic and pants, but no shoes. It was always interesting to see what the dream realm thought was appropriate attire.

He reached out to push the doors open but they did so on their own before he even reached them, opening wide to reveal a massive citadel, ceilingless, with the night sky hanging above it seemingly close enough to touch if he jumped. A fountain was before him, simple and elegant, surrounded by willow trees similar to the ones in Serenvah. Past that was a smaller set of doors, these not sporting anything particularly gaudy, though he found himself drawn to them. His feet knew the way before his mind did and he let them lead, walking swiftly in the direction he was pulled toward with little hesitation.

There was nothing he could do but get this over with.

As he approached the door, he began to hear voices, two of which he recognized, three of which he did not.

All of the voices went silent when he opened the door and stepped through it, as if the air itself had left the room.

He stood in front of what was obviously a throne room—seven massive seats of various elegance stood in a semi-circle before him, though the gods that were supposed to be upon them instead stood around a large war table strewn with documents and weapons that Ronan recognized from old myths.

He looked up from the table. The five members of the pantheon that remained in Feihjelm were staring at him with the same curiosity that he regarded them with. One of them, a shorter woman with dark skin and long white braids, stepped forward a moment later with a hand extended.

" _Welcome to the Seven-Eyed Hall_ ," she said, her voice even and vaguely familiar. She spoke in Hjelohk, which was mercifully familiar to him by that point. Beside her, Felhan moved to pull her hand down.

" _Do not embrace the one meant to kill us_ ," he hissed.

The goddess pulled her hand away, fixing Felhan with a steady glare. " _I will do as I please, and you will remember your place_." She crossed the room and Ronan moved forward hesitantly to meet her, bowing respectfully as the woman once again extended her hand. Felhan continued to protest.

" _You have already gone against us twice to meddle in the affairs of the blighted mortal, Hanwey. I cannot see why you will not simply let the matter drop_."

" _If our fate is set in stone_ ," Hanwey said without turning to look at him, instead fixing Ronan with her solid black eyes, " _there is no reason I should not aid him. Nothing I do will change the outcome that awaits us all_."

Ronan's brow furrowed. He had never seen this woman before, but she seemed to know him. He reached out and took her hand, shaking it firmly. As he did so, he saw two other faces flicker across hers, jarringly familiar. First was the wizened face of the man he had met at the tavern in Illirium, the second was the ever-calm sailor that had piloted the _Lucky Bird_ across the sea to Ivenmore. Ronan's eyes widened.

" _That was you_?"

Hanwey simply smiled, releasing his hand. " _I was your father's guide, if you remember. I know that he cared deeply for you. It was the least I could do to provide you with guidance in his absence_."

Ronan was struck by her warmth. She was the goddess of serenity, he remembered, and she nearly radiated it. " _Thank you_ ," he said sincerely.

Hanwey turned, brushing a few of her braids over her left shoulder and walking back over to the rest of the pantheon.

" _You already know Felhan_ ," she said, nodding to the god with the insect-like eyes and the silver and bone hunting horn at his hip. " _Calyseus is beside him, and Amiriah is the one with the map. I believe you met Eltirash recently as well_."

Ronan's eyes swept over the remaining two members of the pantheon he had yet to meet. Calyseus was tall, his skin pale; it housed a shifting blue current of magic beneath it not unlike Acaeus', flickering and bright. His eyes were black and his hair white, its waves long enough that they fell down to his mid-back. He had once heard that the Asir were often born with white hair to signify their connection to the god of magic, and Ronan found himself wondering if that was true.

Amiriah was next. She was tall, her features sharp and calculating, her skin disorientingly iridescent. She studied him as he did her, mirroring his movements and setting down the map she held. She was the goddess of wisdom, and her eyes certainly reflected that—Ronan had to drop his eyes after a moment, certain that hers would reach into his soul and read every last word scrawled upon it.

When his gaze shifted to Eltirash, the goddess of death simply nodded in greeting. The Seven retreated to their thrones after a moment, leaving two empty; one carved of obsidian with a red eye painted carelessly on the back, sitting in the center, and one to the left of it, carved from wood and wreathed with boughs of willow that had been hung with purple and red tassels. Aevar's, he recognized, and Shivaroth's.

He advanced when beckoned by Hanwey, skirting the edge of the war table and standing in the large reception area before the semi-circle of gods, looking up after a moment and meeting Eltirash's cold eyes.

" _There must have been a reason for your summons_ ," he said, boldly assuming that he had the right to speak first. Calyseus, who had sprawled leisurely back in his white marble throne, was the one to answer.

" _Of course there was_ ," he said with a wry smile. " _We wish to know what you intend to do with us_."

Ronan's eyes widened. " _I thought you would know_."

" _No better than your mortal friends, as much as we wish otherwise_." This time the words came from Amiriah, who fixed him with a steady gaze. " _I am sure Shivaroth has told you that we are slaves to Fate as you mortals are. We do not receive foresight in these matters; in fact, we believe that you, as the Prophet, will likely know more of the circumstances than we_. _We did not foresee Aevar's death at your hands, despite the fact that it had a prophecy that spoke of it. Those books had long since been lost in the archive. The point is that we, as you do, rely on the records of prophets past. As none seem to know what is to become of us, it falls to the one fated to bring this destruction upon us to answer_."

Ronan blinked. " _I...don't know. There is supposedly a vision I am supposed to have that will tell me what is coming, but I haven't had it. I have no idea what Fate has in store for either of us_."

" _He is telling the truth_ ," Eltirash said from her seat. " _My mind is linked with this mortal's prophetic abilities. He has not had another vision, but it is coming. You are to have it here, before us, and tell us what you see_."

" _Shivaroth is not here to protect you this time, little prince_." Felhan carried a hint of bitterness in his voice." _You have no choice but to face us_."

Ronan's guard went up in an instant. His head was indeed beginning to swim, he could feel it starting, but he did his best to keep his eyes clear. If Shivaroth had been there, against Felhan's wishes, he would have been able to help, to draw him from this place, but as it was he knew the gods had him as their captive until he cooperated. He would not be allowed to wake until he provided the information they were searching for.

" _My visions, they—_ " Ronan's voice was beginning to sound far away. He swayed where he stood, then fell to his knees before the Seven. Eltirash stood and walked over, kneeling before him.

" _This is not something you have control over, mortal. I am the purveyor of your visions. I am the one who can bring them forth, even before they are set to happen. Rushing this one, as I have decided is right, is worth the risk_."

His head swam. Ronan shook it weakly. " _This_ ," he whispered with knowledge that was not quite his own. He could feel the power of the Prophet—his power, now—tangible and metallic, all around him. " _This is how you will bring about your end_."

Ronan's vision went out the moment Eltirash touched her fingertips to his temples. There was a sudden, disorienting feeling of being weightless, and then the flashes were coming, one after another.

_Hands in his hair, the pressure of stone at his back. The light of the moon, full and clear. Cold light behind colored glass. Amon'Llyra clutched tight in his hand. An arch made of obsidian and bone. Willow trees. Two pairs of footsteps fading out to one. And finally, large and dark, rose a location he recognized. The Hall of Kings, the Locked Citadel, the Divine Rest—Ferenheld Seat. Its stone walls towered high above the trees scattered around it and the sea behind it, the circle of stained glass in its center depicting the seven-eyed sigil of the gods, its halls containing the ceremonial coronation chamber above and the tombs of long dead monarchs below._

His eyes flew open, and he found himself on his knees and elbows, gasping for breath as he pressed his forehead against the cool marble floor and tried to force himself to breathe. Eltirash's hands were on his shoulders moments later, pulling him up into a standing position and holding him there. His vision was wavering violently. He must have looked bad, because Hanwey leaned forward in her seat with a look of concern.

" _Do not hurt the boy, Eltirash_."

" _He will live. We are unable to kill him here regardless_." She turned her steely eyes toward Ronan's, though he was having considerable trouble focusing on her face. " _What did you see? When will it happen?_ "

" _I—_ " Ronan's voice was hoarse. " _It will happen on the full moon. At Ferenheld_."

" _A week from today_ ," Calyseus muttered. " _How annoying_."

" _How will it happen?_ " Amiriah sat forward in her seat. " _Did you see any indication of that?_ "

" _No_ ," Ronan breathed. He remembered the sight of _Amon'Llyra_ but left it out, unwilling to draw a connection he wasn't positive he could make.

He was desperate to wake up. To get away from the questioning. His mind was too hazy to know which answers were and weren't okay to provide. He wished Shivaroth was by his side, but he was alone save for the curious eyes of the immortals around him.

Pain lanced through his skull and he gasped in surprise, a hand flying up to clutch at his right eye. Eltirash, to her credit, was a bit surprised by the outburst as well—she caught his hand and pulled it away, cursing softly.

" _You cannot stay much longer_ ," she said quickly, stepping away from him. Behind her, Hanwey's eyes had widened. Eltirash continued. " _You tell Shivaroth that the moment he steps foot back in these halls, unless it is as our ally, he will regret every breath he takes for the next three centuries. Do you understand?_ "

Ronan's pain was mounting. He exhaled sharply. " _What did you do to me?_ "

" _Nothing_." The word was sharp on Eltirash's tongue. " _You listen to me. No matter what is to come at Ferenheld when we next meet, we will be prepared. Do you understand, Ronan Aldrea? We will not sit calmly and wait for our own demise_."

He couldn't form the words to respond. His vision was warping, his heart pounding. Something was wrong. He knew it, Eltirash knew it, the rest of the Seven knew it—their faces were varied, some horrified, some intrigued. Eltirash pulled the collar of Ronan's shirt down and pressed her thumb over Aevar's brand, meeting his eyes and uttering two words with conviction.

" _Wake up_."

Ronan's eyes shot open, and he was hit with the jarring sensation of being stuffed back into his body. He lurched from the bed in a panic. Across the room, he heard the sound of a book falling to the floor, and Shivaroth darted over and caught Ronan as his knees buckled and he began to topple forward. No words were exchanged between them. Shivaroth seemed to know what had transpired, seemed to understand—but when Ronan spoke next, he froze entirely.

"Shivaroth," he said shakily, clutching onto the god's shoulders. His voice was raw with agony, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. "Shivaroth, I can't see."

The god sprung into action without a moment to recover himself. He tilted Ronan's face up, pushed his hair away from his eyes. He cursed shakily, and Ronan reached up to touch his own cheeks, his fingers coming away wet with some kind of warm liquid—tears or blood, he could not tell.

"Shiva—"

"I have you." Shivaroth's voice carried an edge of fear. "You are safe. Tell me where it hurts."

"Everywhere," he moaned, his hands fisting themselves in Shivaroth's shirt. The god made sure not to release his hold when he shifted. Ronan couldn't catch his breath. His grip tightened. "Need to be—outside—" he gasped out. "Can't breathe."

"Okay." Shivaroth scooped him up off the floor and Ronan heard him rush out the door of the room. Ronan's head sagged against his chest, feeling the frantic pounding of Shivaroth's heart against his ear. Somewhere behind them a door opened at the commotion, and he heard Zia sleepily call, "where are you going?"

"Out for a bit," Shivaroth hollered back as he walked swiftly toward down the stairs. His voice was surprisingly even. Zia's response was lost on him as he focused on trying to blink away the shifting darkness that had enveloped his vision. No light was present, no color, no shapes. Just endless, reaching blackness. He heard the main door open and he was hit a moment later by a blast of cold wind that shocked him into a deep inhale, the chilled air cutting at his lungs. Shivaroth kicked the door shut behind them and walked a bit before he kneeled, setting Ronan up so his back was against a cool surface and the wind was tousling his hair.

"I am going to try to—to heal this," Shivaroth was saying. "Alright? Ronan?"

"Okay." Ronan's mind was racing almost as fast as his heart. He felt Shivaroth's fingertips ghost across his eyelids, lowering them over his wide, sightless eyes. A moment later he was reacquainted with the warm touch of his healing magic as it washed over him in an overwhelming quantity, swiftly pushing the reaching pain down until it was only a subtle ache. Shivaroth moved his fingers from Ronan's eyes to his temples.

"Open your eyes. Tell me if anything happens."

Ronan obeyed. His panic was mounting; despite the waves of magic pulsing through him, nothing was changing. His vision remained impenetrable. He curled his fingers in the dirt and moss beneath him, forcing himself to breathe—and then he stiffened.

"Left eye! I can see light. Only a little, but it's there."

"Oh, mercy." Shivaroth relaxed slightly, his magic becoming more uniform, gaining a pattern. The pinpoint of light in his left eye widened, brightened, but his right stayed completely and utterly dark, unchanging. Even by the time that Shivaroth was shaking from effort and Ronan's left eye had entirely cleared, the right remained stagnant. Shivaroth cursed, voice admitting defeat, and he collapsed back against the wall beside Ronan, putting his head in his hands. They both knew it was over. All that could be done had been done.

He leaned his head back, squinting up at the night sky with his left eye, giving a dry, sardonic laugh as his half-restored vision set upon the blood red light of the moon.

"'The destruction of the Seven will be imminent,'" he said hollowly, "'When the moon turns red—'"

Shivaroth finished the sentence, voice muffled by his hands. "'And the right flame goes dark.'"


	28. XXVIII. Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> preparations are made.

Shivaroth helped Ronan back through Terr'Havel's doors twenty minutes later. They had sat in silence for a good portion of the time once Ronan had explained the vision he'd had, their arms pressed together, their noses red from the cold. Ronan reveled in the sight that he had, painfully aware of how close he'd come to losing it altogether.

Nothing sank in. Even when Shivaroth reached out and wiped the blood from his cheeks, he didn't quite realize what had happened. By the time they'd entered Terr'Havel, the numbness was starting to wear off.

When they entered the main hall, they were both surprised to find it lit. Shivaroth's brief excuse, as it turned out, hadn't sat well with Zia, who had gone to wake Acaeus and Wynne. All three of them were gathered in various places around the hall; Wynne paced back and forth fast enough to tear a hole in the carpet while Acaeus plucked idly at a string instrument Ronan didn't recognize and Zia tugged at stray curls of her hair. Both she and Acaeus stood as they walked through the doors, eyes widening immediately as they saw the blood on Ronan's face and shirt.

"By the Three," Zia breathed. "I knew something was wrong, but I—what happened?"

Shivaroth explained. Ronan was removed from his grasp by Wynne, who sat him down in front of a mirror and began to examine his eyes. Ronan, at one point, glanced over at his own reflection; he was met by a pair of eyes he only half recognized. One was warm and brown, the other, his right, pale and cloudy. Blood was dried in the corners of each, and he exhaled sharply.

The loss of his peripheral vision was jarring and unnerving. The idea of fighting like this was setting him on edge, and reality was beginning to catch up with him. He was blind in one eye. Unseeing.

"Ronan." Wynne's voice called him back to the present, drawing his eyes away from the mirror and toward her face. "You with us?" She seemed endlessly calmer than he was, and he pushed his own shock down.

"What?"

"What should we do?" Wynne looked at him expectantly.

Ronan glanced around the room. All eyes were indeed on him, but his mind had been elsewhere—all words had been lost to him.

"I'm sorry," he said breathlessly. "What are you asking me?"

"When do we leave for Ferenheld?" Zia asked, a grim restlessness in her eyes.

Acaeus made a face beside her. "Are we really going to play into Fate's plan? What if we just didn't go?"

"It will happen at some point regardless," Shivaroth asserted. "One way or another. Fate does not lose."

"Well," Acaeus muttered, "Fate can suck my—"

"Tomorrow," Ronan interjected hoarsely. Everyone fell silent. "We leave tomorrow. If we want to get there within the time frame we've been given, we will have to leave at the break of dawn."

"Are you sure, Ro?" Wynne put a hand on his arm, the slight tremor in it betraying her otherwise calm exterior.

"Shivaroth is right. We don't have a choice here." He gestured to his eye, sighing deeply. "This and the moon, the conversation with the Seven, the vision—all of these things are pointing toward the end. We can run, we can hide, or we can meet it with open arms. I don't know about all of you, but I'm getting a bit tired of running."

Zia chuckled darkly. Acaeus ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. Wynne stood beside him, sighing.

"Fine," Zia said. "We knew it was coming. Let's go." She nudged Acaeus with her elbow. "One more good night of sleep," she said with the faux-alluring tone of a merchant trying to sell a visibly decrepit product. "What do you say?"

Acaeus frowned. "If this really was my last night to sleep, I'm going to be royally annoyed with you for waking me up."

"Drama queen," Zia muttered.

"Yeah, yeah." Acaeus shrugged. "I'm in."

Ronan looked to Wynne. She inclined her head.

"You know I'm with you regardless, Highness. I can be ready to leave whenever you need me to be."

Shivaroth, in the center of it all, had his eyes trained on his bare feet.

"Shiva?" Ronan prompted.

The god looked up, hastily banishing all emotion from his face. "You lead, Ronan. I will follow."

He looked around the room at his Circle, tired but together, each beginning to become aware of the finality of the moment at hand. Ronan took a deep breath.

"I want each of you to do your best to rest. We don't know what the next week will bring, and no doubt it will have more in store for us than we'd like." Ronan hesitated. "And I just wanted to say—"

"Save it," Acaeus said firmly. "No goodbyes yet. Save them until we know we need them."

Ronan bit his lip, then nodded. "Alright."

Zia and Acaeus both bade him a solemn "goodnight" before retreating back up the stairs. Wynne took one last look at his eyes before kissing his forehead.

"You look alright, all things considering. Come get me if something starts to hurt, but I think Shivaroth healed everything he could."

"Thank you, Wynne."

"I knew plenty of fine warriors with one eye, and even some with none. You'll be just fine, Ronan."

"I know." He gave her a shaky smile. She ruffled his hair and began the trek back to her room. Ronan felt a pang in his chest; she'd have to say farewell to her wife in the morning without being able to provide the reassurance that she knew she'd be coming home again. He knew she had done that same thing many times before, but every time it had to happen in his name, he was met with wildly heightened dread.

And after this, assuming they all made it through, they would have a war to fight. He would have to don his father's armor as well as his crown and fight his way through an army for the sake of his homeland and his people, all without the guarantee that he or those fighting beside him would survive the coming battles. He supposed that this uncertainty was how life went, however. No one, no matter the gravity of their daily tasks, knew whether or not they would live to see the following sunrise.

When it came down to it, he supposed the ill-founded certainty surrounding his death in connection to the first prophecy had been something of a blessing. It gave him a surety that no other mortal could have: a date and time for the end of his life, a spectral hourglass, a way to know when to say goodbye to those he loved and make amends with his enemies.

He had lost that, now. It was not as much of a relief as he had expected.

Shivaroth allowed him to lean against his side as they made their way back to Ronan's room. He was steady, warmer than he had been when they'd done the same in Illirium. His head sagged against the god's shoulder. When the door had finally been shut behind him and Ronan was led to his bed, his hand caught Shivaroth's and held him in place.

"I'm tired," he said, his voice barely more than a sigh. It was disorienting to focus on him with only one eye. "I'm tired, and I'm scared, and I want this all to be okay. I want it to be over."

Shivaroth's fingers wrapped around his own, and he sat down next to Ronan on the edge of the bed, his hair shielding his face. "I know, dear one. I know." He exhaled heavily. " _Vi'attai_ ," he murmured, the word easy on his lips. _I love you_. "I am here."

Ronan turned, staring at him silently. Shivaroth didn't know that he knew. He assumed that the word, being dead, had escaped Ronan's vocabulary. He bit his lip.

"Will you stay here?" He blurted out after a moment, startling both of them. "Next to me, I mean. As I sleep."

Shivaroth turned to look at him, his lips parted in surprise. Their hands, still entwined, now seemed to carry more significance.

"Yes," he said steadily. He withdrew his hand from Ronan's and stood. "Give me one moment." As he crossed the room and hung his coat over the back of a chair, Ronan subconsciously rubbed his right eye in an attempt to clear it before he sighed and slid beneath the covers. He moved over so that Shivaroth would have room and turned to face the wall, his eyes already closed by the time Shivaroth sat above the blankets beside him. He leaned back against the headboard, his presence grounding. The god tentatively ran a hand through Ronan's hair after a moment, then paused.

"Is this alright?"

Ronan murmured an indecipherable assent, already mostly unconscious. Shivaroth exhaled through his nose in what Ronan took to be a chuckle, picking the movement back up and carding his fingers through the prince's dark curls.

He slept easily in the last remaining hours before sunrise, lulled into sleep by the soft sound of Shivaroth humming something beside him and the feeling of his hand in his hair. When his eyes opened to the light of the sun, its brilliance lost to the pale iris of his right eye, he found that Shivaroth's head had fallen forward and his breathing had softened; he had never seen the god sleep, and was almost taken aback to see him so still. Ronan slid out of the bed around his body, careful not to wake him. Though he was unsure about whether or not Shivaroth required rest, he figured it wouldn't do him any harm if he let him sleep a little longer.

His feet hit the cold stone floor and he walked across the room, looking out the window through a bleary, sleep-blurred eye. There was a gentle dusting of snow on the ground, and though it looked like more was to come, the travel conditions seemed well enough for them to get to Ferenheld without a hitch from the skies.

This was it, he realized. The end was approaching. Regardless of whether or not he was going to live or die, it would all soon be over. Fate would have its way, and he would be forced to watch himself become either an instrument of destruction or rebellion.

He moved through the room awkwardly, the dizzying sensation of having only half of his vision hindering his progress. It would take a bit to get used to, there was no question about that, but Ronan had a feeling that he had narrowly avoided his true fate: the word _Vaasa'Khir_ was proof enough of that. _The Blind King_.He pondered the title as he looked out the window at the sweeping view of the Midlands.

The lack of sight very quickly proved itself to be a hindrance; his depth perception was skewed along with his peripheral vision, and those two factors alone caused him to trip the moment he moved away from the window. He put a hand back against the vanity to catch himself, knocking over a small empty glass. The sound caused Shivaroth to fly off the bed and grab for the nearest weapon on the end table— _Amon'Llyra_ —and raise it before him as if he meant to defend himself. Finding only Ronan in his field of vision, half-dressed and slightly alarmed, he exhaled heavily, he put the weapon down and rubbing his eyes.

"You startled me."

"Evidently," Ronan said breathlessly. Shivaroth, catching the underlying shock in his voice, examined him more closely.

"Did something happen?"

Ronan raised a hand and pointed at his blind eye. "Just getting used to this."

"Ah," Shivaroth murmured. "I imagine that will take time."

They talked for a moment, both audibly exhausted, before Shivaroth excused himself and slid out of the room, neglecting to tell Ronan where he was going. He didn't let himself worry; he trusted Shivaroth well enough by that point to know nothing sinister would come of it. He began to focus on packing.

He brought as little as possible, not that he had many items of personal significance with him to begin with. His bag was small, and contained nothing but a healthy collection of various medical supplies, while the other thing he thought to bring, _Amon'Llyra_ , was hung at his belt.

His eyes caught, once, on his reflection in the mirror, and he stopped. Beneath his collar, over Aevar's red mark, another had been made. He ran a finger over it and leaned in close. It was a black circle, simple and flawless, with a small triangle above it. It fit perfectly over the iris of the Eye of Aevar, and he recognized it after a moment of deliberation as Eltirash's sigil. He laughed dryly, remembering the way the goddess had pressed her thumb against his skin the night before. It had been a brand. He had escaped the hold of one deity only to be shoved into the hands of another. He _was_ the Prophet of Death, after all; he supposed that did put his life firmly in Eltirash's hands.

The door opened, and he sprung away from the mirror, hastily shoving another roll of bandages into the bag over his shoulder. Shivaroth shut the door behind him and Ronan's brow furrowed when he saw the two coats the god had hung over his arm. He set them on the bed before toweling off his hair with the cloth he'd set around his shoulders, which was damp from what he assumed was a brief trip to the bathhouse.

"What are those?" Ronan asked, nodding to the coats Shivaroth had carried in. The god smiled sheepishly.

"They're from Liliana. She made it very clear that if we are all potentially walking into our deaths, we have to look a bit less like we've been on the run for months. She's waiting for you downstairs."

Ronan raised an eyebrow. "Alright," he said cautiously, removing his sword belt and his bag and handing them to Shivaroth. "I'll be back."

He exited the room and made his way to the base of the stairs, where Liliana was indeed waiting. She greeted him warmly and led him from the main hall to the bathhouse, where she sat him down on a stool and got out a pair of scissors.

"I can cut your hair if you like," she said after Ronan had been given a moment to study his appearance in the mirror.

"Please do." It had gotten much too long—it was down to his cheekbones, unruly and terribly annoying. "Do you remember what it looked like before?" "Before" being before the war. A good while ago, now.

"I do. I can recreate that easily."

"Thank you."

Liliana set to work, letting him think as chunks of hair fell away. His face was sharper than it had been, and bore a few more scars than before. He looked older—almost as if he was worthy of ruling.

By the time his hair was newly cut, the dark curls falling over his forehead, he felt like a new person. Liliana passed him a blade, which he used to scrape away the bit of stubble that had started to form on his chin and cheeks. She smiled and exited the room after he thanked her again, leaving him to a large, steaming pool of water behind him. It was set in the floor, tiled with patterned white marble, and Ronan was vaguely reminded of the bathhouses back in Adacia Proper. He sank into it with a sigh of relief, washing his hair and attempting to relax before he climbed out ten minutes or so later and put on the fresh clothes Liliana had provided.

The white tunic was high collared with an adornment around the neck set with a blue stone, while the pants, black and well tailored, were relatively plain. His boots were made of soft brown leather, and he looked at himself once in the mirror before he left.

He looked different. Different, but stronger.

He left the room a moment later, passing no one in the halls and slipping back into his room unnoticed. Shivaroth looked up as he entered, his eyes catching on Ronan's face and holding there until he dragged them away.

"You look like a king," Shivaroth said, voice betraying nothing. Ronan took a deep breath.

"And you look like a god."

Shivaroth had slid the coat Liliana had provided over his shoulders. It was long, down to his knees, and perhaps on anyone else would have seemed tacky; the cloth was purple, hemmed and patterned with a deep red and embroidered with intricate patterns of brightly-colored feathers around the collar, base, and cuffs. It was similar to the tattered coat the god had worn throughout their journey so far—but this one was not torn or muddied, and the fur lining made it appropriate for the weather.

Shivaroth inclined his head. "Thank you." He stood and handed Ronan his own jacket, a simple black overcoat that fell down to his thighs with Adacia's sea and sword sigil embroidered over his heart. He settled into it easily, sliding his sword belt on beneath it and putting his bag over his shoulder. Shivaroth fastened a cloak over his own shoulders and passed another to Ronan, who took it gratefully and put it on.

"Everyone is ready," the god said after a moment. "They are waiting in the dining hall, I believe." Ronan inhaled, taking in the room around him and the feeling of safety that accompanied it.

"Alright," he murmured. "Let's go, then."

The short journey to the dining hall was made silently. He and Shivaroth walked side by side but neither found themselves able to speak, instead focusing on the walls that had grown so familiar over the time they had spent there. When they opened the doors to the main hall, everyone got to their feet.

His eyes swept the people before him. Wynne had returned her hair to its braid and donned her familiar armor and wooden bow. Acaeus had bound Stormbreaker across his back and his rapier to his belt, tying up his own hair into a short ponytail. Zia had cut her hair, and her curls now fell down to her chin. She wore a red and black tunic with a similar stone adornment to Ronan's at her throat, hers a deep red. She nodded as their eyes met, and Ronan turned to Liliana last, who stood at the head of the table with an unreadable expression on her round face.

"Thank you," he said sincerely, giving her a deep nod. "For your hospitality, along with everything else."

She smiled at him. "There's one more thing I can offer you before you go," she said, and a smile flickered across Wynne's face in anticipation. Liliana straightened up. "You'll need a spy network when this war starts for real," she said firmly. "We won't get the upper hand without a firm grasp on Rhydel's strategies and secrets. You're well aware of my family's long line of informants already, Highness, but I figured I would formally offer my services. The Tsu Rin name is well acquainted with the title of Spymaster."

Ronan's lips parted in surprise. The war would indeed become his priority, should he survive the coming days, and Liliana spoke nothing but the truth.

"I would be honored to have you," he said, bowing at the waist. "I welcome you as Adacia's Spymaster and a future member of my court, Lady Tsu Rin."

Liliana returned the bow and smiled, falling silent and walking over to stand by Wynne, who leaned over and pressed a kiss into her hair. Ronan straightened up beside Shivaroth, steadying himself.

"I can't promise you we'll all come back from this," he said, planting his feet, "so if any of you want to back out—"

"Come on, Ro." Zia grinned at him. "A bit late for that now, don't you think? We knew what we were getting into back then, we haven't forgotten the risks. We're in it until the very end."

Her statement was met with nods and murmurs of agreement, and Ronan felt a rush of warmth. These were the people he would live or die beside in the coming days, and he couldn't have chosen them any better.

"In that case—" he hesitated, remembering Acaeus' firm protests surrounding goodbyes, "—let's move while we still have a few hours of light." 


	29. XXIX. Hold Tight, Beloved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> words are exchanged, a decision is reached, and things begin to fall into place once and for all.

It took them four days to travel to the Hall of Kings. They skirted around war camps, some flying the red colors of Rhydel while others flew the ever-elusive blue of Adacia. They stopped for nothing and spoke little. The occasional traveler eyed them from the road but they were recognized only once by a young girl and her brother, from whom Ronan heard an awed cry of, "that's the prince!"

By the time the towering stone citadel was rising over the horizon, they had a single day left. The moon would be full that night, and Ferenheld was only just now becoming visible, leaving them no time to appreciate the beauty of its ivy-covered stone spires. They would not have much time to prepare. When they dismounted and loosed their horses to roam in a nearby fenced pasture, Ronan found himself dwarfed by the sacred hall of coronation. He approached the door at a wary pace, grateful when Zia climbed the steps beside him.

"I heard this place only lets in those that are worthy," she said nervously. "I don't know if I'll—I'm not sure I'll pass its test."

Ronan shook his head. "It judges me on whether or not I'm fit to rule. It judges the rest of you based on what it finds in your heart. You'll get in."

Shivaroth spoke up with an uncharacteristic amount of worry in his voice. "And how does it decide who is unworthy?"

"I'm not sure. My father never told me." He turned and gave the god a slight smile. "It'll be fine, I promise."

Above the door were words carved into the stone in Old Adacian: _Na'Teva Esha Valei Sihara_. _May Your Heart Be True_.

The air seemed to thicken as he approached the door. A presence, alien and sharp, edged itself into his mind. By the way everyone stiffened around him, he could tell they had felt it too.

" _You seek to enter Ferenheld Seat_ ," it said, and its voice, though he had never heard it before, was familiar. " _Step forth, Ronan Aldrea_."

Ronan obeyed without question, stepping forward so that there was a short distance between he and his Circle. The voice spoke again.

" _Place your hand on the door_."

He did, setting his palm flat against the ancient carved wood. The seal of Adacia was worked into the wood at the place his fingers sat.

" _You enter this citadel to face your gods of old. You are to be king?_ "

"I am."

" _Be still_."

There was a sharp pain in the center of his chest and he doubled over, gasping at the shock of it. Behind him, he heard someone move forward, and then Wynne, speaking sharply: "don't!"

Silence fell. By the time the pain stopped he was gasping for breath, but the presence seemed satisfied.

" _Your heart is true_ ," it said. The door swung open beneath his hand, and he stepped through. " _You may pass, future king of Adacia_."

Ronan walked through the door, marveling at the features of Ferenheld that he could see. The ceiling was high, the floor lit with multicolored light from the glass seal of the Seven that sat high above the door. The walls were hung with portraits of old royals dating back to before his family held the throne. It was massive, and that was only the reception hall. The true main doors sat a good fifteen feet away, waiting to give way before his hand. Before he could firmly grasp his surroundings, the voice continued.

" _Step forth, Wynne Elestyn_."

The doors remained open before her, and she stepped forward without hesitation.

" _Place your hand on the barrier_."

Wynne tentatively reached out, a look of surprise passing over her features as her hand connected with the place the door had been and found it solid. The air seemed to ripple around her fingers as she touched it.

" _The king's right hand, and first line of defense. You would give your life for his?_ "

"Without question."

" _Be still_."

Wynne's lip twitched as she undoubtedly felt the same pain that Ronan had, but she stood tall through it, holding her breath until a moment later the voice announced, " _your heart is true_." Her breath hissed out through her teeth.

" _You may pass, Knight of the Circle_."

Wynne stepped through the doorway and the barrier visibly parted to let her in. She turned and stood beside Ronan, putting a steady hand on his shoulder.

" _Step forth, Acaeus Lesterium_."

Acaeus hesitated for a moment, then complied, his hand coming up slowly to rest against the barrier. His magic flared up beneath his skin, blue and leaping, reacting to whatever power the barrier contained.

" _The king's shield. You believe you are better off as a sellsword, do you not?_ "

Acaeus bit his lip. "I do."

" _Be still_."

When the pain hit him, Acaeus cursed vehemently, screwing his eyes up and leaning his forehead against the barrier until it passed and he was left panting. His eyes opened and Ronan saw a flicker of fear before the voice spoke.

" _Your heart is true. You may pass, swordsman_."

Zia was standing with wide, frightened eyes at the top of the stairs. When the voice called her forth, she exhaled shakily.

"Ronan, I really don't think it's going to work."

"Zia—"

" _Step forth_." The voice had become firm. " _I am the one that decides whether or not you are worthy. You will comply_."

Zia walked to the door as if her feet were planted on hot coals. She set her palm against the barrier and shut her eyes.

" _The king's sword. You took the throne after your mother's death, and feel as if you will never live up to your title. You do not want to be queen, do you?_ "

"No," Zia breathed. "I don't."

The voice's prodding of her soul began, and she bit her lip harshly to stifle a cry of pain. When it was over she stood tense and shaking, not opening her eyes until the voice said, a bit more gently than it had before, " _your heart is true_." Zia exhaled in pure disbelief.

" _You may pass, Queen of the Ever-Shifting Sands_."

Zia rushed through the door like she was afraid it would be shut to her if she waited a moment too long.

The Circle was inside. Shivaroth stood in solitude on the staircase. When the voice called him forward, he obliged without even a hint of his earlier worry.

" _Shivaroth. You are the god of dreams and guardian of the lost, though you seem to be quite lost yourself. Do you believe you are worthy of carrying your mantle?_ "

"Yes," Shivaroth said. His eyes locked with Ronan's as the voice searched his soul. He had a sorrowful look on his face.

There was a silence. Shivaroth sighed deeply.

" _You are lying_ ," the voice said after a beat. " _To me and to yourself_."

Ronan leaned forward, alarmed. Shivaroth's hand pressed tighter against the barrier.

"Yes," the god repeated, though this time his tone was defeated.

" _You believe the first version of yourself was the true version. That you do not deserve to exist, much less walk in his shadow_."

"Yes." The word was a breath.

" _You may not pass_."

The Circle stood in shock. Shivaroth smiled sadly, as if he'd been expecting this.

"I understand." As he moved to step back, Ronan surged forward, thrusting his arm through the barrier and clutching Shivaroth's wrist, holding his hand in place.

"Wait!" He said desperately. "Check again. Please."

" _I am not wrong. I am not biased and I do not make mistakes. The Dreamweaver's heart is plagued by the true conviction that he is not worthy. I have read that clearly_."

"But he is worthy!" Ronan protested. "He may not think he is, but I do. Can't that be enough? Can't you overlook his heart, just this once? Read mine again if you have to. I'll vouch for him."

" _Interesting_."

Shivaroth's eyes were wide in shock. He said nothing as the voice seemed to think it over. Ronan gave him an encouraging smile, though he knew his panic was showing through it. He took a deep breath.

" _I will read your heart on the Dreamweaver's behalf to reevaluate my verdict, per your request_."

Ronan sighed in relief.

" _Though know that if this fails, he will be turned away completely. No more chances. I only agree to this because you are the first to ask for hundreds of years; most simply accept defeat. You intrigue me, Ronan Aldrea_." The voice's presence strengthened. " _Release Shivaroth, and move your hand so it is flat against his_."

He withdrew his arm and raised his right hand so it lined up perfectly with Shivaroth's left. The sleeve on his left hand had fallen down and the gruesome, half-healed burns from the shackle he had worn so long ago were visible beneath it. Ronan tore his eyes away and focused on the silver scars on Shivaroth's fingertips to take his mind off of his pounding heart.

" _Be still_."

Ronan flinched a moment later from the pain and Shivaroth lifted his other hand and pressed it to the barrier, his eyes shut tight. Ronan's heart, uncomfortably tangible for a moment due to the being's reading of it, seemed to be increasingly warm. By the time the process was over, his chest was aching steadily and his free hand was clenched tight at his side.

No one said anything. Not Ronan, not Shivaroth, not the other three behind them. They stood, silent and wide-eyed, waiting for the voice to pass its judgment.

" _Your heart bears a single steady truth, Ronan Aldrea_."

He stayed completely silent, holding his breath.

" _You believe that he is more than worthy. That of everyone that has borne or will bear his mantle, he is the truest of them. You trust and respect him with every fiber of your being_."

Shivaroth's eyes snapped to his.

Ronan drew himself up. "I do, yes."

" _Shivaroth, Weaver of Dreams and Guardian of Wanderers_."

The god froze. The voice hesitated. Ronan's toes curled in his boots.

" _You may pass_."

The barrier dissipated beneath their hands and Shivaroth's palm was suddenly flush against his own. Their eyes were wide. A moment later Shivaroth tentatively stepped through the threshold and away from the door, watching it as it swung closed behind him.

"Thank you," he whispered to the voice.

" _Thank your mortal friend_ ," the voice countered. " _You are all welcome within the halls of Ferenheld Seat. Ronan Aldrea, should Fate allow it, you will be back in these halls for your coronation. I find you rather interesting. I sincerely hope to see you then_."

Ronan inclined his head before he realized that the voice may not have any way of seeing him. "Thank you for saying so," he said, matching the formality of its tone. "And thank you for allowing Shivaroth to enter. Truly."

" _You are welcome_." The presence began to fade from his mind. " _Ferenheld is in your hands, young monarch_."

The moment the presence faded entirely, they seemed to let out a collective breath. Zia seemed almost as rattled as Shivaroth despite the fact that she had passed the test without a hitch, and Acaeus and Wynne both looked at Ronan like he'd done the impossible. Perhaps he had—he had never heard of anyone previously deemed unworthy being let in.

"Holy shit," Zia said finally. "We did it."

Acaeus laughed nervously. "Worst part's over with." He paused. "Well, unless we have to fight a pantheon of gods. If that's the case, then the worst part is definitely still coming."

"Thanks for that," Zia muttered.

"Of course. Always here to dampen the mood." Acaeus looked around the hall, examining the portraits and walking over to some of the weapon cases Ronan had overlooked.

"We should enter the citadel," Ronan said somberly. "We don't have very long until the moon rises."

"Ronan's right." Wynne stepped forward. "We need to get moving. We can relax once we're in our positions."

At her urging, Ronan walked forward and cautiously pushed the towering citadel doors open. Shivaroth said nothing but stayed close behind him, while Zia and Acaeus paired up and Wynne took up the rear.

Once the doors had opened fully, the sight of the main chamber stole the breath from his lungs.

The far wall was a seven-paneled stained-glass tribute to the gods, each one depicting a different deity in a different color. Shivaroth's eyes, awed and reverent, were fixed on his own pane, fashioned out of various shades of purple, the window itself easily twenty feet tall and stationed second to the end. The glasswork made him look gentle; his eyes were closed, his hair floated around his head, and from his hands, cupped before him, multicolored thread made of shards of angular glass hung freely. Ronan found himself drawn to Aevar's, which was fittingly red and standoffish and came first in the order from left to right. The god depicted within it wore a confident grin and held the broken blade of _Amon'Llyra_ over his heart, his broad-shouldered figure practically announcing his arrogant bravery. He turned his head away a moment later, though his thoughts of Aevar were strangely calming. He had not been afraid to die, and had not even seemed surprised in the face of it; he wished he had a fraction of that courage.

Perhaps the god had known the outcome all along. He had pursued Ronan with a reckless abandon, taking joy in each moment. His surprising gentleness at the end, when he had taken Ronan to the cliffside, was what made him wonder. The smile that had been on his lips until his last breath and the triumph in his eyes at Ronan's display of defiance—were they products of understanding?

He sighed. There was no way of knowing now.

Beneath the windows was a throne he had heard his father speak of many times. It was simple, made of unassuming stone, but Ronan knew its purpose. The future ruler of Adacia was meant to pass a test upon it before they earned their crown, the details of which may have been the best kept secret in the kingdom. The room was otherwise bare, lacking the decorations the reception hall had boasted save for a few tapestries embroidered with Adacia's crest. There was a door off to the side that Ronan assumed led to the second floor and the ramparts, but aside from that there were no other exits after they'd locked the main door behind them.

"It's beautiful," Zia said softly. "I hope we don't have to kill anyone in here."

Acaeus snorted darkly at her words.

The Circle spread out around the room; Zia and Acaeus sat down at the base of the steps near the throne and talked quietly while Wynne moved about the chamber making sure everything was secure, taking care to memorize every loose tile, every tapestry, everything she could potentially use to her advantage in a fight.

He was still examining the windows when he felt Shivaroth gently take his forearm and draw him a few feet away. Ronan looked up at him, a question on his lips, but Shivaroth spoke first.

"Can I speak with you?"

"Of course, what—"

"Alone," Shivaroth intoned. Ronan's brow furrowed but he nodded, pointing toward the small door in the corner.

"Follow me." He made his way across the room and made a motion to Wynne that conveyed their purpose. She nodded and waved them off, and by the time the door was shut behind them, Ronan could practically see Shivaroth's restless impatience. They ascended a tall staircase and at the top, in another open hall that displayed everything from books and ancient artifacts on pedestals to skulls of extinct beasts, Shivaroth grabbed his arm again and spun him around so they were facing each other.

"Why did you do that?" He asked firmly, his hand firm on Ronan's wrist. "Why would you vouch for me?"

"What do you mean, 'why?'" Ronan's brow furrowed. "Because I need you here with me. Because I care about you. What do you want me to say?"

"Whatever was in your heart caused a minor deity to change its mind," Shivaroth said with an alarming amount of intensity. "Ferenheld Seat was built so that no one with lies in their heart could enter. I should have been turned away in an instant. Something in your voice caused that deity to listen to you, and something in your heart caused it to disobey every single part of its purpose. Why did you do it? How?"

They could be dead by morning. Ronan planted his feet as if he were readying himself for battle, making up his mind in a split second and not allowing himself to think about it any further.

"Shivaroth."

The god's eyes sharpened at the determination in his voice, and he tensed expectantly. "Yes?"

" _Ahn'avine_."

He echoed the word he had read in the dictionary perfectly, and the world seemed to slow to a stop around them. The response had come weeks late to the first utterance of its counterpart, to the first appearance of _attai_ , but given the utter shock in Shivaroth's wide eyes, Ronan knew he remembered what it was referring to.

"What?" The word was choked. The god released his arm and stepped back.

" _Ahn'avine_ , Shivaroth," Ronan repeated.

"How do you know that word?" The god whispered. "No, how do—you do not—I do not understand."

"I read it," Ronan said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "It was in an old dictionary at the archive."

"You do not know what you are saying."

"' _And more than the seas,_ '" Ronan recited. "I know what it means. 'I love you, too.'"

"Ronan, that is not a platonic phrase. The depth of the affection that conveys—" his voice was pained. "It is not what you think."

It was Ronan's turn to step forward. He took both of Shivaroth's hands in his own and raised his chin, a defiant set to his jaw as he looked up and met the god's wide eyes.

"I know exactly what I'm saying," he insisted. "I love you. _Vi'attai_."

Shivaroth stood completely frozen for a moment before he tentatively withdrew his hands from Ronan's. He felt a moment of panic while his mind scrambled to keep up—had he misinterpreted this somehow? Had he—

Not half a moment later, one of Shivaroth's hands was in his hair and the other was pressed flat against the wall behind them. Ronan's noise of surprise was abruptly muffled as Shivaroth's lips were pressed against his and his shoulders collided roughly with the stone wall. It took him a beat to realize what had happened and one more to lean into the kiss, letting his eyes slide shut and his hand raise up to weave into Shivaroth's hair. They only pulled away when they were forced to, when both of their lungs were screaming for air and Ronan's shoulders began to ache.

Shivaroth pulled back first, wide-eyed and panting as he tried to force his disbelieving smile to fade. "We have to wait," he said breathlessly.

Ronan, still pressed up against the wall, raised an eyebrow. "Wait for what? Tonight marks the end of our world."

"Wait until it is all over," Shivaroth insisted. "Kiss me then, and I will know that you mean it."

Ronan's heart was pounding out of pure euphoria. Shivaroth's cheeks and ears were flushed, dusting his skin with a light purple that made his tattoos stand out. Ronan raised a hand and ran a finger across Shivaroth's cheekbone in absolute awe, laughing with a clear note of disbelief.

"What?" Shivaroth smiled in spite of himself.

"You're a god," Ronan whispered. "Yet you're spending your time with me, even when it could be a danger to you."

"You are worth it," Shivaroth said without missing a beat. "One thousand times over."

"And the pantheon—"

"The pantheon knows we will never see eye to eye on this matter," he said. "You are not the first thing we have disagreed on, and you will not be the last. The fact that I—" the god took a moment to steady himself. "The fact that I love you will only mean they will have to fight harder to pry me from your side."

The god stepped back and Ronan pushed himself from the wall, running a hand through his hair and smiling sheepishly.

"I mean it, you know."

Shivaroth looked at him with a curious expression. He continued.

"I love you. Truly. I cannot tell you when it happened, but I'm sure of it. I never expected that I would...that this would happen, but I don't regret any of it. Not a second."

"I love you, too," Shivaroth murmured, the words carrying a deeper meaning on his tongue. "Regardless of whatever is coming, that will not change."

They remained on the second floor, entirely alone, for the next few hours. Shivaroth spent his time looking through the old books on display while Ronan meandered about the hall and read old description cards beside the items. There was one pedestal in particular that caught his eye: it displayed five rings, each of them cast or carved from a different material. They were the rings that had belonged to the Circle of the first queen of Adacia. The silver one belonged to her, the one carved painstakingly from obsidian belonged to the queen's knight, the gold one to her most trusted advisor, the copper to her sharpest ally, the bronze to her defender. They were simple bands with delicate feathered edges, and Ronan stared at them for a moment before pocketing them, whispering a quiet apology to the ancestor that had once worn one of the rings he had stolen before he turned away without a second thought.

By the time he looked up again and scanned the horizon through one of the slender windows over the many display cases, the sun was sinking over the mountains far in the distance.

"By the Seven," Ronan murmured, his heart skipping a beat. He raised his voice so Shivaroth could hear. "It's getting dark. We need to get back."

The god put down the book he was holding, his eyes widening. Ronan rushed toward the stairs, taking them two at a time and throwing the smaller door open at the bottom. The rings he had taken made a melodic sound in his pocket.

Zia, Acaeus, and Wynne were sitting in a circle in the center of the room with cards in their hands and a pile of coins between them. Zia tossed another in as he watched, and he raised an eyebrow as Shivaroth came to stand at his shoulder. Wynne met his eyes across the room, lifting a hand in greeting. Without turning, Zia called to them.

"Took you two long enough," she said with good-natured humor. "You could have wagered money with us before this all went to shit. We're even playing for keeps."

"You think I would have willingly played cards with you?" Ronan crossed the room and stood before them, while Shivaroth moved toward the windows and watched the sinking sun plunge the skies into darkness. "I've played with you enough to know you'd steal every coin I have to my name in three seconds flat."

Zia snorted. "If only. The fortune of the Aldrea line is something I have yet to get my hands on."

A silence fell over the room. Shivaroth walked over to them, and Ronan watched the cards and money get shoved into various pockets before he began. The words he finally spoke were directed at Acaeus.

"I suppose now is the time for goodbyes, isn't it?"

Acaeus' face had gone grim. "I suppose it is."

The three that were not yet standing got to their feet. They all faced Ronan, and he was struck by the exhaustion reflected on each of their faces. It was almost over. There would be rest after this, one way or another.

"This is it, then." Wynne murmured. "I...it has been an honor. If we don't see each other again—"

Zia's eyes filled with tears at her words. Wynne pulled her in without even a moment of hesitation, letting the young queen lean into her side without judgment.

"If we don't see each other again, know that I do not regret a single moment spent with any of you. You've given me something incredible over the last few years, and I would not trade it for the world."

Acaeus pressed his hands against his eyes in an attempt to hold back tears of his own, cursing shakily.

"I—" he sighed, and lowered his hands. "Thank you. For everything." A halfhearted smile flickered across his lips. "I'm sorry for being an ass. There is no other group of people I would have lent my sword arm to this willingly, and that's the truth. You're the best collection of people I've met, even when we're all acting like fools." He gritted his teeth and lowered his head, and Zia picked up where he left off, moving away from Wynne and taking a deep breath to steady herself.

"I don't care what happens in the next few hours. Regardless of the outcome, you have all given me the adventure of a lifetime. We could live or we could die—either way we have already done the impossible. We've stayed alive and stayed together. We know the risks well enough by now that we could recite them from memory, yet we're still standing. If we get through this, you're all coming to Esadon and I'm buying drinks."

Ronan cracked a smile at her words, and Shivaroth piped up from the back, his voice as serene as ever.

"I know I am not the most familiar or the most trusted, but you have all shown me courtesy over the past months. I may not have much to say about times past, but I can assure you that you have the purest convictions of any mortals I have ever walked beside. You are stronger than you know. No matter what your futures hold, you are honored in the eyes of at least one god, even if my word does not mean much anymore."

They had all said their piece. It was time for Ronan to say his, he knew it, yet the words just wouldn't come. He had run over speech after speech in his head for years. He had known he would have to say these goodbyes for as long as he could remember, yet now that it was time to make them, only one thing was present in his mind.

"I love you all," he said, forcing the words through his lips through the threat of tears. "More than you know. It's thanks to you—to all of you—that I'm still standing. You have stood by me no matter what, but challenged me when I needed to be challenged. Your steadiness has kept me—" his voice broke, "—has kept me steady. This, where we are now, this is thanks to you. I couldn't have done it without all of you beside me. No matter what happens, know that you have been the truest friends I could hope for."

He reached his hand into his pocket, his fingers brushing over the chilled bands of the rings. He steeled himself.

"I have something for each of you."

His statement was met with a series of confused looks. He drew the rings from his pocket, displaying them in the palm of his hand. Wynne's eyes widened in immediate recognition.

"Where did you—did you steal those?"

"They're a family heirloom," he said sheepishly. "It's not stealing if they once belonged to someone I'm descended from."

"You stole them," Wynne muttered. Zia snickered, and Acaeus gave him a thumbs-up. Shivaroth had to duck his head to hide his smile.

"The point is that these are the rings of the First Circle. Each ring has a position assigned to it. They were retired from use as badges of office long ago due to the system being a bit annoying, but I thought they would be good for...remembering. Just in case."

He picked up the gold ring in his right hand.

"Wynne."

She stepped forward, and Ronan slid the ring onto her right hand to avoid her wedding band.

"This is the Sparrow's ring, traditionally given to a monarch's most trusted advisor. Your advice has been steady throughout the years, and I have—I have come to think of you as a mother. There is no one I trust more than you, and I am endlessly grateful to have you by my side." Wynne smiled, taking his hand in her own. "Wear this proudly," he murmured. "You have more than earned it."

When she stepped back, he called Acaeus forth. Ronan slid the ring of obsidian onto his finger, and he ran a finger over it experimentally once Ronan had pulled back.

"This is the ring of the Raven. It is given to the monarch's knight, the wielder of their sword and shield. You have protected me faithfully since we met, both physically and otherwise, regardless of harm to yourself. You are truly one of the bravest men I know, and I hope that one day I can repay you for everything you have done to keep me standing." Acaeus smiled, whispering a quiet word of thanks before stepping back to his place in the half circle that had formed.

"Zia."

Zia walked forward, accepting the copper ring as it was slid onto her finger. She held his hand as he began to speak, her fingers shaking as much as his.

"This ring is the Falcon's. It is given to the fiercest of the monarch's companions, one who commands respect and is not afraid to stand up for what is right. You are my closest friend," he murmured. "My dearest ally. We have been through more together than most will experience in a lifetime, and I am so incredibly glad that you are with me now."

The queen stood tall, studying the ring she had been given, before she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Ronan. He buried his face in her shoulder, his skin tickled by her newly cut hair, and she mirrored the action.

After Zia had stepped back, he called Shivaroth forward. The god faced him with a look of pure trust, and as Ronan slid the final ring, bronze and simple, onto his finger, he gave him a gentle smile.

"The Heron's ring is given to the defender," he murmured. "One that has shown wisdom, strength, and selflessness in the face of danger. You have given nearly everything for my sake, Shivaroth, and you continue to do so without so much as flinching. Your wisdom is an unending comfort. Thank you, truly, for all you have done."

Shivaroth raised a hand to Ronan's face briefly before stepping back to join the rest. Ronan lifted the final ring up, the silver band catching the light. He slid it onto his finger.

"This is the Dove's ring," he said, his voice ringing clear throughout the room. "It is worn by the monarch, the leader. It is the one that brings the rest together." He looked around the room, at those that he had fought beside, cried beside, lived beside—and he exhaled slowly.

"Whether this is the end or not, we will remember each other. Whatever will come, will come. We will bear the burdens we must when it becomes necessary to bear them."

Ronan's eyes drifted to the window, now dark. He took a deep breath.

"I suppose now all we do is wait," he breathed. "That is all there is left."

The waiting lasted three long hours. The cards were broken out once more, their ceremonious silence too much to bear, though they kept their voices hushed as if there was someone listening. When the moon shone in through the stained glass, Zia's eyes widened, fixing on something behind them. They all turned, clambering to their feet when they saw what had formed.

In the center of the room stood a simple door, open, with a strange shifting light obscuring the view of the other side. They all looked at it in apprehension before Shivaroth exhaled sharply.

"That is a gate to Feihjelm," he said softly. "We are meant to go to them."

Ronan approached it warily, drawing _Amon'Llyra_ and holding it tightly in his non-dominant left hand, the hold awkward due to the unfamiliarity but wise; as long as he was operating with his left, he still retained a portion of his peripheral vision. He could fight if that was what it came to. As he reached out a hand to touch it, Shivaroth surged forward and pulled it back.

"Wait!" He examined it, his eyes narrowed. "This gate is weak. I do not think it will hold all of us."

"And if we try to go anyway?" Zia asked.

"Then we get sent to various corners of Feihjelm and are stranded there, only theoretically in one piece." Shivaroth's face was grim. "Only two of us can cross safely."

"Oh, fuck that." Acaeus bounced on his toes. "I can't stand around in here while Ronan's off facing a hall of murderous gods."

Wynne put a hand on his shoulder. "It may be what has to happen," she said firmly. "We have done this before, this period of not knowing is not new to us." Wynne met Ronan's gaze. "Who are you taking, Ro?"

He was met with four pairs of expectant eyes. He bit his lip.

Acaeus was strong but reckless. Wynne was wise and quick on her feet but she would refuse any outcome that would result in his death. Zia was sharp and level-headed, but her death would cause an entire island to fall to pieces. That left Shivaroth. He knew the place, he knew the language, he knew the people, and his godly power would return to him immediately upon crossing Feihjelm's threshold.

"Shiva." He met the god's eyes. "I must warn you, Eltirash swore to harm you should you return to Feihjelm—I urge you to consider this carefully, but...will you accompany me?"

"I am capable of handling that threat," Shivaroth said. "I would be honored." If the other Circle members had any thoughts on his decision, they weren't made clear.

He nodded deeply to his Circle. All that he could say had been said. The only thing that remained was the conclusion of it all.

Ronan turned toward the gate, tightening his grip on _Amon'Llyra_. Shivaroth tentatively slid his hand into Ronan's and he immediately tightened his fingers around the offered line of support. They each took a deep breath, squinting into the light of the gate. Shivaroth spoke after a moment, his voice grave.

"Do not let go, dear one. No matter what happens, keep your hand in mine."

Ronan's hands were shaking. His throat was tight. "I won't," he managed. "I promise."

They moved forward together, and stepped through the rift into Feihjelm side by side.


	30. XXX. Where the Wind Stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and so they found the end.

When the light faded, they were left in the center of an oppressive stillness. Only Shivaroth made any sound, a slight gasp as his power was returned to him in a rush. It was a tangible difference. His hair began to float and his tattoos began to shift, weaving patterns of their own volition. Even so, neither of them said anything.

They were in the room Ronan had entered first the last time he had been in Feihjelm, though this time the boughs of willow were still and stagnated and the fountain had slowed to a legarthic pace. No wind blew. Ronan caught Shivaroth's gaze, raising a silent eyebrow at the lack of grandeur, the nearly stifling silence. He nodded toward the door they both knew led to the throne room and entered it without ceremony.

It was empty, though its stillness was not like that of the room before it; this room's stillness was brought about by the massive chunk of stone that had been cleaved from Eltirash's throne and the destroyed war table in the center. Shivaroth made a choked sound in the back of his throat and pulled his hand from Ronan's, running forward and falling to his knees above something the prince couldn't see.

As Ronan moved closer, the breath was stolen from him.

Dark blood dripped down the stairs that led up to the thrones, pooling at the base, and sprawled at the top of the white marble steps, face down and motionless, was Felhan. His hair obscured most of his face but Ronan could see that two of his six eyes were still open, though they had long since lost any hint of life. He stepped forward, putting a hand on Shivaroth's arm.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, breaking the silence. Shivaroth shook his head in disbelief.

"I do not—who? Who could have done this? No one else has entered Feihjelm, I can feel it, yet this was not our doing—"

Far in the distance, there was a clash of metal and a shout that he recognized. Neither he nor Shivaroth wasted a second; they were running forward, Ronan following close at Shivaroth's heels, out of the citadel and back into the Godswood, before either of them had a chance to speak. The sounds of fighting grew louder as they approached, and more blood was smeared on the trees. They passed another body, Amiriah's, which Ronan nearly stumbled over. They did not stop even once, but he could feel Shivaroth's terror mounting.

When they finally reached the source of the noise, they skidded to a stop almost immediately. Eltirash, doubled over and bleeding, raised her sword above Hanwey's head with a hungry, bestial yell. Hanwey ducked away easily while Calyseus circled them both, his eyes calculating.

"Please, sister," Hanwey was saying. "I do not want to hurt you."

"It is much too late for that," Eltirash hissed. "I will have your head. I will have—"

"Stop this!" Shivaroth stepped forward, drawing his scimitar in one smooth motion. All eyes turned, shocked, to where he stood, and he planted his bare feet firmly in the mossy ground. "Have we not done enough damage to each other already? Have we not—"

Eltirash lunged at him before he could finish. Shivaroth's blade was up in a heartbeat and he parried easily, his speed just fast enough for Ronan to know that had his opponent been mortal, they would have been dead where they stood.

"You have no say in our fate," she hissed into his face. "You took their side. You have always taken their side. Does family mean nothing to you anymore, Shivaroth? Has your death muddled your vision so much that you can no longer see what is important?"

"You think I do not _care?_ " Shivaroth's voice was venomous. "You think I have not spent every moment that I walked Ishtel locked in a battle between two parts of myself? It is killing me to stand before you knowing that you think I am the enemy. I am not going to strike you down, sister, I am here to settle things. Peacefully, if we—"

Eltirash cut him off with a shuddering gasp. An arrow, made of nothing but pure blue energy, had sprouted from the center of her back. Ronan, his eyes wide, staggered back a few steps as Shivaroth let out a cry of grief. Across the clearing, Ronan saw a bow shimmer and disappear from Calyseus' hand.

Eltirash gasped for breath, sinking to her knees and taking Shivaroth with her. "This is your doing," she hissed. "If you had stood by Aevar when you should have, none of this would have come to pass. You did this, Shivaroth. You."

Tears were streaming unbridled down Shivaroth's face.

"I am sorry," he breathed as her eyes slid shut and she fell forward against him. Behind them, the two remaining gods were frozen.

"What are you doing?" Hanwey's voice was shrill, her eyes wide, but Calyseus shook his head calmly.

"What had to be done."

Ronan, his heart pounding, turned his attention away from the gods, taking in the place where they stood. The Godswood was completely still, and completely silent. The clearing they were in the center of was charred and blackened, the burns faded enough that Ronan was confident that they were ancient. In the middle of it all sat a shattered obsidian arch, cleaved in half. He knew, somewhere deep within him, that it was the Void Gate—it stood decrepit and forgotten, no longer a threat to those around it but still unnerving enough to cause him to hold the hilt of Aevar's blade a bit tighter.

Ronan shook his head to clear it. He took a step forward, intending to speak his mind, but the moment he did so Calyseus had summoned his bow and trained an arrow on his chest. Shivaroth lurched up in an instant, pushing Ronan behind him and glaring at his brother.

"Someone has to die," Calyseus said after a moment of tense silence. "One way or another. It is us or the Prophet, that is how I see it."

"There has been enough death tonight," Hanwey asserted. "There will be no more if I can help it."

"Let us see what Fate has in store for us, sister. I do not think the choice is in our hands anymore. The Prophet will destroy us; let us see how." Calyseus, his voice raw and exhausted, moved to stand beside Hanwey as Ronan edged closer to Shivaroth.

The four of them stood apprehensively across from one another. During every beat of silence, Ronan was convinced that something deciding would rise up and end this, something only Fate could have brought forth. Any free will he may have possessed did not occur to him.

He spoke first, after a long moment of consideration.

"If one of us has to die, I would rather it be me than all of you. The life of one mortal cannot compare to the lives of three gods—the turmoil my death would cause is minuscule compared to the devastation wrought by the fall of the pantheon. I do not wish to inflict your deaths upon my people. If my fall is what it takes to end this, you are welcome to strike me down."

Shivaroth shook his head immediately. "No. There has to be another way."

"I have had plenty of time to come to terms with my own mortality, Shiva. I think this is the best course of action."

"There is no guarantee that your death would change anything about this situation," Shivaroth protested. "None whatsoever."

Ronan shook his head. "If you remove the instrument of destruction from the equation, there can be no destructive outcome."

"You are wrong." Hanwey spoke calmly. "Even in your absence, we managed to destroy ourselves. We turned on each other, we killed those dear to us. You were not present for that, and yet it transpired regardless, all in your name. Whether you are dead or alive, child, you will be the catalyst of our destruction."

He pondered this; he did not know if she was right. The prophecy seemed to implicate him directly, and did not reference the craze of frightened deities. His involvement in their self-slaughter could have been anything from correlation to causation, and he would not have known. Regardless, it was only one event in a long line of those thrust upon him by Fate, another deed forced upon his name, dragging him further from himself.

Ronan exhaled. Then, softly, posed the question they were all thinking:

"Then what do we do?"

The voices of those standing around him exploded all at once. Shivaroth, fighting valiantly on his behalf, argued that Ronan's death would accomplish nothing. Calyseus, his hands already stained with the blood of his siblings, calmly stated that Ronan was right, that his death would cause the least amount of harm. Hanwey, though her eyes were fixed on Eltirash's limp corpse, repeated that they could do nothing, that Ronan's death would leave them right back where they started: in the midst of a massacre.

Ronan himself stood back. His mind was on other things, on Aevar and the way the sunset had lit his fiery hair from behind. On Wynne's voice, the touch of her hand on his cheek, the way she saw everything and revealed nothing. On Zia, with her proud shoulders and regal head, her snake-strike eyes, her cunning hands. On Acaeus, with his wit as sharp as his blade and his grin ever sharper. On Shivaroth. On their struggles and their triumphs. On the god's eyes, dark and knowing. On the reaching branches of Serenvah, and the way Shivaroth's arms had encircled him oh so many times in comfort. On his lips against Ronan's own.

On his father, with his gray-streaked hair, on his mother, with her stories of hope, on his kingdom with its palace and its library and its books. On his people. On who would take the throne. On the war with Rhydel that Adacia would win or lose, and the dissatisfied churning of his stomach at the thought of not knowing which side would prevail.

But his thoughts, whirling as they were, returned to what was most familiar. Red. Sunset. Snow. Aevar's voice in his ear. _There's your fire. There's your fire. There's your fire._

He did not know when he had started to cry, but the moment the first tear fell, hitting the toe of his boot, he became aware of the weight of _Amon'Llyra_ in his palm. He would have to break the promise he had made to Shivaroth on the night of his first brush with death. The promise he had made to his people. But perhaps this was best—perhaps this would bring the peace he had fought so hard to obtain. Perhaps, in some odd twist, the change he had tried to force would come without the aid of his hand.

Aevar had been right. He left behind an interesting legacy.

The gods argued. He stood silent. He wondered if Wynne would be angry or proud. If Zia would forgive him. If Shivaroth would forget him. If Acaeus would find the home he so desperately searched for. If Aevar—

—if Aevar had known that this was how it would end.

Ronan Aldrea seized the hilt of _Amon'Llyra_ , and took control of his own destiny.

They all realized too late what had happened. By the time Shivaroth had turned, the blade was already buried deep in Ronan's chest, its jagged tip protruding unnaturally from between his shoulder blades. The gods fell silent. Then, Shivaroth began to sob.

He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the gods could heal him with a word. That when none of them moved, either too shocked or too awed to act, it was a silent agreement with the sudden action of his hand. Ronan was grateful, even as he fell to his knees and Shivaroth lunged to catch him, that they did not try to help. He had made his choice. The same blade that he had driven between his ribs had struck and severed the strings of Fate before finding its mark.

He was free. The world was beginning to go dark, but he was free.

"Ronan," was all Shivaroth could manage. The god clutched his hand with chilled fingers. He did not move to help. "Let me—I can—"

"I want Wynne to take the throne," he said calmly. His voice was hoarse. "She won't want to. Tell her it's only until she finds someone she deems worthy. I trust her."

"Ronan—"

"I should have written a letter," he said, his words carried on a tired sigh. "Of all the things I thought of, of all—" he began to wheeze, "—of all the preparations I thought to make, I didn't write a letter."

"Do you really think this will mend things?" Shivaroth's hair was falling in dark cascades over his shoulders, over his face, mingling with his tears. Beautiful. He was beautiful.

"I don't know," Ronan said gently. "But I can't—I can't continue to reave the world in two. My life alone is not worth the lives of many."

A tinge of disappointment worked its way in beside the relief. They had worked so hard, he thought as his eyes closed, and all for nothing. Years of his life, of the lives of those in his Circle, all thrown away for this.

"Do not say that," Shivaroth said sharply. Ronan realized he must have spoken it aloud. "Do not dare to belittle yourself when you—you have shown such courage."

"You do not realize quite what you have accomplished, do you?" Calyseus' voice rumbled from somewhere on his left. Ronan did not turn his head. "You are a member of a Sevensworn people, a race bound to us as we are bound to Fate. We are all slaves of another, and when our master tugs on our chains we follow—and Fate is above all of us, above the Seven, above the Three, and so far above mortals that it rarely bats an eye at a member of your kind. It does not bow, it does not relent, and it does not lose. Do you see now what you have done? The miracle of your actions? You have surprised Fate itself, Ronan Aldrea. An ant has butchered a bear."

Shivaroth's hands were gentle as he drew Ronan closer. The sovereign prince closed his eyes.

"Keep that in mind," Ronan murmured, "the next time you doubt the heart of mortalkind."

Calyseus chuckled deep in his throat. "I see why Aevar liked you," he said finally. "You possess the fire he yearned for so desperately."

Ronan allowed his mind to drift. Shivaroth didn't speak at first, perhaps not wanting to force Ronan to respond, or perhaps in the wake of his shock. The air was still around him as if the forest itself was holding its breath. Everything was silent. Then, Shivaroth spoke.

"What is it you are thinking about?" His voice trembled while his hands did not. Ronan, his mind slowing, opened his eyes and smiled.

"Serenvah," he whispered.

"Then sleep, dear one. I will meet you there."

Ronan's breath left him. Somewhere, deep in the heart of the Godswood, the wind began to blow.


	31. XXXI. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a small thank you.

Wow. Okay. I guess this is it. To those of you that have been following me from the beginning, you've known me through two of the years that _Sevensworn_ has existed. To those of you that are new here, I'm sure my passion for this WIP has not escaped you.

This novel was started four years ago when I was fourteen years old. It was with me through high school, and I'm putting it to rest mere weeks before I begin college. It's grown with me, changed with me, and hopefully gotten a bit less annoying, just as I can only pray I have. I started _Sevensworn_ on a Friday just like this one with a vague concept of a boy named Ronan Aldrea and a whole lot of overly-ambitious nonsense in my head, and today, four years later, both that boy and my overly-ambitious nonsense have led me to the hard-won finish line.

Needless to say, this project was—and is, and will always be—incredibly important to me. It's my first original work, the longest thing I have ever written, and the only project I've stayed loyal to for this long. I'm so happy you have all gotten to witness its journey, along with mine and Ronan's, and I can't even begin to express my gratitude to all of you for your support and the endless stream of kind words.

I love this story, I love its characters, and I owe both a great many things. I am so proud to finally be able to say this, after so many years:

 _Sevensworn_ is complete. Both Ronan and his story will finally get some much-needed rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're interested in more of my writing, i'm @aureliobooks on tumblr and twitter, and i have a few new projects in the works! thank you all so, so much for your support.


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